LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



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I UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. | 




MUSINGS 

OF 

A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 



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Musings 



or A 



Middle-aged "Woman. 



BY 



A I L E N R O C.c V» ^*>>-i i 



At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan." 

Young. 







philadelphia: 

CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 

Nos. 819 & 821 Market Street. 

1872. 



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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 

CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 

in the Ofnce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 

STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN & SON, PHILADELPHIA. 



PRJNTEn BY MOORE BHOTUERS, 

Franklin Buildings, Sixth St., below Arch, 
Philadtlpbia- 




T FORMERLY held that, if one had anything to 
"*" say, it could be as well said in social converse 
as any other way. That belief is now a vanished 
illusion, — vanished with my youth. I have found 
out that other people have something to say, too ; 
and when I am putting forth my most brilliant ideas, 
most telling sarcasms, and convincing arguments, 
they are not listening at all (or only with one ear), 
but are thinking all the time what they shall say 
when I get through. You know, reader, that one 
never gets credit for brains, simply because one has 
listened well; but if one is well read, why, that 
immediately gives one a place among the literati ; 



X PREFACE, 

and that, knowing this, many people will read who 
will not listen. *' Therefore," having for more 
than forty years tried in vain to be well listened 
to, I now make an effort to be well read — trusting 
for success and approval in my undertaking. 

AlLENROC. 





MUSINGS 



OF A 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 




MIDDLE LIFE. 

" Manhood and womanhood with their dower of noble work, 
and strength to do it." — Mrs. Charles. 

ES, I am middle-aged — on the "wrong 
side of forty " — with streaks of gray- 
hair, and here and there a wrinkle. 
Was brought to look this fact in the face 
by a remark of a young friend of mine, a few 
days ago, when urging her not to care what 
" Mother Grundy " said on a certain occasion. 
" Well," answered she, " middle-aged ladies, 
like you, can do as they like; but it would 
never answer for young girls to be so inde- 
2 13 



14 MUSINGS OF A 

pendent." I quietly assented, and she did not, 
for an instant, suspect that she had reminded 
me of a fact which I only remembered when 
my birthdays came 'round, or when my pres- 
ent indifference to what " people say," so con- 
trasts itself with my girlish fear of censure, as 
to tell me that I have arrived at the indepe7ide7it 
age. Ah! if it were only independence — but, 
alas! alas! for middle age — how much is 
gone — how much fled before we get there! 
Before we achieve our independence ! 

It seems to me that, like republics, we only 
gain self-reliance, knowledge, independence, 
strength, through shattered hopes, strife, heart 
losses, graves, and those added years which 
take away the simplicity of our youth. Like 
republics, did I say ? Aye, look at our own 
land — this great America! The most glorious 
and Christian republic the world ever saw ! 
Her youth was weak and boastful — she was an 
awkward, rough school-girl, yet simple, hon- 
est, innocent — full of high hopes and great 
aims; but she has reached middle age, and 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 1$ 

is a great country, and strong (I admit), in 
full noontide brilliance — rivalling the old mon- 
archies in their fights, their fashions, and their 
follies ! Has she lost nothing to gain it all ? 

And you, men and women, sisters and 
brothers ! all who are in the noontide of your 
strength ; who have achieved independence of 
thought and action ! What have you lost ? — 
Nay, I see it in the faces of even the happiest 
among you. In yours, successful man — suc- 
cessful in business, in love, in fame. I have 
seen you stop, and look with longing eye at 
the boys flying their kites ; or at the youngster 
coming home from school, with his satchel of 
books ; and I knew (though you only appeared 
to wipe your nose) that you gave a tear to 
school-day pleasures and friendships, and the 
zest which sweetened all. 

I knew, if your little daughter sang "Ben 
Bolt" for you that night, you would ask her 
why she never sang it before — ask if it were 
not a new song, and feel that the last verse was 
not as true as the others, for 



l6 MUSINGS OF A 

" There ' was ' a change in you." 

And you, successful beauty — you fortunate 
woman; who married well and the man of 
your own choice — you, who have love and 
give it, and are proud of your children who do 
you credit, — have you lost nothing in all these 
years ? When you get with the friends of your 
girlhood (those who are left), do you talk of 
your husband and children ? — of the present 
at all ? Perhaps you mention with pride and 
thankfulness your many blessings ; but it is of 
past days that you, that they all talk most. 
You talk of the time when the world was all 
before you ; and voices grow low and eyes fill 
as you speak of the dead — the changed. And 
when some one recalls old day-dreams, and the 
girlish simplicity which believed that a '' Thad- 
deus of Warsaw," or a " Coelebs," was a certain 
reward of beauty and propriety — a smile, with 
a regret in it, goes around. 

Aye! vanished illusions! vanished illusions! 
To middle age, men are but men, and women 
but women — not gods and goddesses; and 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 1/ 

rare it is to find a person who, after forty, be- 
lieves in the perfection of any human being. 
The truth is, that after that age we are all prac- 
tical believers in the " total depravity " of the 
opposite sex, at any rate; and it scarcely needs 
marriage even, to convert us. This change 
comes to all ; the most fortunate, the happiest, 
the best. But, friends, what of those others, 
by far the most numerous, with wrecked for= 
tunes, shattered hopes, and broken hearts? 
Ask them ? Ask that woman sitting alone — 
thinking, thinking ! 

You and I remember her as a bright girl, full 
of noble impulses — with strong hopes, poetic 
fancies, and great aims ; and she has, perhaps, 
realized her early promise, and become famous. 
Yet, ask her! and she will answer with a smile, 
which is sadder than a sigh, " You see 

A worn and weary woman, 
With all her illusions flown." 

She is a strong woman now; not easily de- 
ceived ; calm, cool, practical — expects not 



l8 MUSINGS OF A 

much, trusts little. Perhaps she writes and 
says sharp things, which are not always Chris- 
tian and gentle; and the world calls her reck- 
less and unwomanly. "Judge not:" you know 
not what wrongs — what heart-breaks have 
changed her so. Believe me, there is a story 
back of it. Indeed, most men and women at 
forty have their story, either of disappointed 
love or ambition ; or heart and home made 
desolate by some great crime or wrong; and 
they scarcely know themselves how it has 
changed them. But God be thanked that the 
change sometimes is for the better; and that 
when it is not, He brings " good out of evil ; " 
and that those great, fiery, impulsive intellects, 
which time and trial have hardened and sharp- 
ened instead of softening (from Dean Swift down 
to Ward Beecher), have done some good in the 
world — have found a place, and amidst all 
their rough witticisms, and queer theology, 
have told many home truths, which men of 
finer mould would have left unsaid, and which 
the world needed to have said. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I9 

I am not, reader, seeking to excuse those 
men or women who let the dealings of Provi- 
dence, and the world's rougher usage, drive 
them into shipwreck of their faith, and to a 
" higher law " than Revelation ; or to forgetting 
that true type of manliness and womanliness 
drawn by the "pen of inspiration." But I 
would say, pity and forgive them. You know 
not what aching heads and hollow hearts may 
first have been theirs. You, who are hedged 
about with sympathy and love — you, who have 
never had anything harder to bear than the 
death of loved ones, pity those who have living 
troubles ; and if it change them for the worse, 
thank God, who has spared you. 

Then, too, there are those who — starting out 
on life's voyage, with sails all spread, and the 
calm sea around rippling in the sunshine, un- 
warned, and uncounselled — rush into quick- 
sands, or on a hidden rock ; and out of the 
wreck lift a voice to prevent younger mariners 
from losing their all in the same venture. If 
they cry loudly, and use strong terms, instead 



20 MUSINGS OF A 

of blaming, let us rather thank them for their 
generous efforts in others' behalf; remembering 
that those who have suffered most from a 
wrong, feel it most keenly ; and that all re- 
formers, or would-be reformers (from Martin 
Luther down), have gone to extremes, and that 
there can be no reform without it. 

But I said that sometimes the change is for 
the better ; and so it is, and so it might always 
be, if we men and women would only follow 
the course of nature, and, like our own forests, 
be rocked by wind and storm into strength and 
beauty, as we reach our maturity. 

Oh ! I have seen it, and so have you all ; 
seen strong men, and gentle women, whose 
sufferings, trials, and temptations have only 
served to make them stronger and gentler ; to 
make them sympathizers with every sufferer, 
comforters to every mourner — increasing their 
love and charity for their fellow-men; and their 
faith in their God. 

Yes, we have hope for middle life, as well as 
consolation. Have we failed in our life-work, 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 21 

you and I ? Ah ! how much we meant to do 
for our race — our age. Yet, alas ! how little 
we have done! How we have failed! — 

" Fail ! yet rejoice, because no less 
The failure that makes thy distress 
May teach another full success." 

Could we only see it so — only feel that our 
failure is a brighter beacon than our success — 
that our burning house will guide the wanderer 
better than any little rushlight we might have 
set in the windows of that house. 

Then, too, it is not always failure. Is our 
trial, as a nation, for self-government a failure, 
because England has " stuck her finger in our 
pie," till she roused all the bad blood both 
sides of "Mason and Dixon's line;", and the 
North, putting a chip on her shoulder, dared 
the South to knock it off; and the South being 
of stuff which would not be dared, they came 
to blows, and spilt some of the best blood of 
our land, and wrecked fortunes, and broke 
hearts ? Because all this happened, is our 
nationality a failure? And I answer — no! a 



22 MUSINGS OF A 

thousand times no ! Are we any weaker in 
sixty-nine than in sixty-one ? 

Dare either of the great powers of Europe 
lay a finger on our flag? — or even on our sores 
to pity us? No, no; we are "Young. America" 
no longer. We have fought our way to man- 
hood — to middle age; can deal a man's blow, 
endure with a man's calmness; and, with a 
man's patience and perseverance, gather up the 
broken links which bound brother to brother; 
and out of the wrecked fortunes, spilt blood, 
and broken hearts forge a chain of forgiveness, 
sympathy, and love which shall bind us for- 
ever. 

And shall men and women talk of failure, 
because they have reached their zenith ? be- 
cause their soap-bubbles have burst? because 
their castles-in-the-air are demolished? because 
their illusions have given place to realities — their 
poetry to prose? Shall they call it failure that 
their life-work is not accomplished, when they 
are stronger, wiser, and more capable than ever 
before ? Oh, friends ! you have been preparing 



MIDDLE- AGED WOMAN. 2$ 

for the battle all these years of discipline and 
trial, do not shrink from it now. 

But some, I know, are fettered, hindered on 
every side, and feel their lives frittering away 
in daily cares. Yes, some there are, both men 
and women, (for I utter not the popular cry of 
men's larger field,) many of both sexes, be it 
whose fault it may, striving to eke out a living 
for loved ones. The father, husband, or brother 
spending brain and energies, which might have 
ruled a nation well, upon the petty details 
of some business which leaves no room, nor 
time, nor strength for intellectual growth, nor 
the advancement of his age, nor the improve- 
ment of his kind. The wife, mother, or sister, 
bearing her part in care for the family ; in do- 
mestic retrenchment; in a prevention of house- 
hold waste, which irritates the temper, and 
wears away the spirit of a high-strung, intel- 
lectual woman, and causes her to cry out: ''Is 
this all? Is this the end of my youthful hopes 
and aims? — this trying to make a pound of 
butter last longer than it used to ? Oh, life ! 



24 MUSINGS OF A 

life ! Is this all ? Is this all that middle age 
brings us ? " And I answer, No, this is not all ; 
yet will not be one of "Job's comforters," and 
tell you, if it is all, you deserve it, and should 
be thankful for what you have left. I will not 
insult either your understanding or your Chris- 
tianity, by supposing that you do not know 
that " No man deserveth anything at the hand 
of the Lord." Besides, how know I, or any 
other man, that your sufferings, whether mental 
or physical, are not all sent, like Job's, because 
you are especially near and dear to the heart 
of " Our Father." But I do know that even in 
this life '* The Lord blessed the latter end of 
Job better than the beginning." Aye, there is 
more meaning than we usually give to it, in the 
old proverb, "Where there is life there is hope." 
Think you, it originally meant only physical 
life, mere existence? I trow not. My mean- 
ing is — of life in its fullest sense — Energy^ 
Trust, and Faith. Faith in God, faith in man, 
and faith in your own right arm upheld by an 
Almighty one. Pray foi success in the lifting 
of the burden ; then watch for its removal. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 2$ 

Ah, middle age ! you have lost one thing 
with your youth, which you may regain if you 
will. It is the simplicity of prayer which you 
had when at your mother's knee, for a new 
toy, or that God would take away the naughty 
toothache, or that He would not let the dark 
hurt you. Does it not all come back to you 
now how, with simple faith, you watched for 
the answer? How the new top (perhaps weeks 
after), and the remedy which allayed the pain, 
came to you as direct answers to prayer? And 
how, though the dark was still a terror, it 
could not hurt you, because you had asked 
God, *' for Christ's sake," not to let it. Verily, 
we must every one " become as little children," 
not alone to inherit heaven, but to gain earth, 
too. "Only believe." 

But to all in middle life, both the fortunate 
and the unfortunate, there comes also consola- 
tion. If we have fewer hopes ; more graves to 
tend; fewer living left to love; more battles to 
fight; and more storms to breast — at least all 
the burdens we have borne ; the pains we have 
3 



-26 MUSINGS. 

suffered; and the storms passed through, are 
over, are ended — they cdin never come again. 
If so much joy and hope have gone from our 
lives, just so much sorrow and suffering have 
gone too. 

" One cross the less remains for me to bear, 
Already borne is that of yesterday." 

Half our life gone. Half our earthly joy and 
hope — and, blessed be God, half our sorrows, 
half our pains. Already the cross is lighter; 
the home, yonder, is nearer. 

" I 'm nearer my home to-day 
Than I ever was before ; — 
Nearer the bound of life, 
Where we lay our burdens down. 
Nearer leaving my cross, 
Nearer wearing my crown." 




AM I AN OYSTER? 

What 's done, we partly may compute, 
But know not what 's resisted." — Burns. 




DO not ask for information, but only 
in indignant remonstrance at being 
treated as one. I, a respectable, mid- 
dle-aged woman, to be taken for an oyster ! 

If it had been a monkey, I should quietly 
have submitted to "inevitable destiny," for 
Darwin says that we were all originally 
monkeys ; and of course Darwin knows. Was 
he not by? Did he not see the transformation, 
and know all about the world and its inhabi- 
tants centuries before their recorded creation ? 
I am open to conviction on the subject of 
monkeys; for, by frequent association with apes, 
and the tendency human nature has for aping 

27 



28 MUSINGS OF A 

those it comes in contact with, who knows but 
I might have dwindled back to my original 
condition. Besides, monkeys certainly do be- 
long to the highest order of brute creation. 
They have instincts, character, individuality, 
and enough of human nature to cause them to 
delight in tormenting their neighbors, and 
meddling in their business. In truth, they have 
so many qualities belonging to mankind, that 
to have been taken for one would not have 
been quite so much of an insult, especially as 
I have made the mistake several times myself 
with regard to some of my acquaintances. To 
be taken for a ino7ikey is bad enough, to be sure, 
but — an oyster! 

If it had been a cat even, it would have been 
better; for pussy has means of self-defence, 
powers of locomotion, and is possessed of 
affections and antipathies. If you treat her 
well, feed her, and give her a nice place on the 
hearth-rug, she will purr, rub herself against 
you to show her delight, keep your closets free 
from mice, and otherwise prove herself a pleas- 
ant inmate of your family. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 29 

But starve her, kick her off the rug, and rub 
her fur the wrong way, and then see ! see how 
she will spit, and show her claws and teeth 
when you come near her. Now, I have so 
much sympathy with pussy when she is driven 
from the fire, and her fur rubbed the wrong way, 
that I must have claws somewhere concealed, 
which would make their appearance under 
similar circumstances. 

But I have no affinity, no sympathy with an 
oyster; — lying still, shut up in its shell, doing 
nothing but imbibing. So little of the animal 
about it, that, when once ordered by my physi- 
cian to take no other animal food, I felt as if 
put on vegetable diet — and told him so. 

Then, these creatures have no means of self- 
defence ; or at least do not use them. When 
" cook " takes hold of them, and, in an insulting 
manner, pitches them into a basket preparatory 
to roasting, why don't they open those big 
mouths of theirs, and give her finger a bite she 
would remember? — I should. And when she 
puts them, alive, on broiling hot coals, why 
3* 



30 MUSINGS OF A 

don't they make a fuss, and jump off? — you 
would, and I would, and most anything else 
with animal life would; but not they. There 
they lie and bear it, till the fire proves too 
much for their vitality ; then, in a very decent 
way, open their mouths at last, and with dying 
gasp say, " You have done for me ; had you not 
better, for your own sake, take me off." 

I leave it to an "enlightened public;" am I 
an oyster ? An oyster, indeed ! Let anybody 
try it, and see if they have not taken hold of 
an electric eel instead ! And they did try it — 
have been trying it for some time — everybody; 
"all the world, and the rest of mankind." 

I may as well tell you the whole story; not 
to get any sympathy, since you, like the rest, 
will take me for an oyster ! I feel sure you will 
— it is the fashion to do so. Still, I always 
feel better when I relieve my mind ; and this 
being one of the subjects upon which I tried, 
vainly, to be well -listened to, shall make an 
effort at being well-read. 

Was a little dyspeptic, from desperate efforts 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 3I 

to digest late dinners, and the " Negro Suffrage 
Bill." Then, from reading so much about 
" Reconstruction," " Tenure of Office," and 
"horrible murders," (meanwhile being much 
alone, and having no one to whom to express 
my opinion,) became a highly-charged electric 
battery. Physician sent for; and the case 
stated by ''anxious friends" to be — exhaustion 
from over-exertion. Exhaustion ! reader, I 
would have given worlds to have gotten a 
chance to exhaust my poor, bursting brain ; 
but, being too sick to assert my rights just 
then, held my tongue, while the doctor pre- 
scribed, " Lie still, and do nothing." Of 
course, like any reasonable being, I took the 
prescription, with limitations ; supposing it 
meant nothing which could be called work — 
nothing to tire one; such as cleaning house, 
making a shirt, walking a mile, writing a book, 
or, reading one like — 

Not being an oyster, I did not take it literally. 
Did not for an instant imagine that it meant 
to lie perfectly still, shut up in my shell — 



32 MUSINGS OF A 

neither speaking, nor reading, nor thinking, 
nor using my hands nor feet, not even ex- 
pressing my opinion when imposed upon. 

You may, therefore, imagine my surprise 
when, upon taking up an amusing book for an 
hour, or darning a pair of stockings, or talking 
a httle, I was met with such remonstrances as 
the following : ** Oh ! it will hurt your head to 
read; let me read to you." I hid the book 
under the bed-clothes, and held it tight; it 
would have finished my head entirely to be 
" read to." Or, " You must not sew, or talk ; 
the doctor said you must be perfectly quiet ; let 
me do the talking." The person in question 
was fond of doing the talking. 

I am naturally patient — at least, have great 
powers of endurance, which I take to be the 
same thing — so bore all this uncomplainingly, 
trying every day to do more of "nothing" than 
I did the day before. But fortunately, or un- 
fortunately, just which you choose, I had read 
the "Declaration of Independence;" and, if I 
had not, should have known that " there is a 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 33 

point beyond which patience ceases to be a 
virtue." Accordingly, when put on broiling 
coals, that is — when the dust was swept in 
my eyes, instead of out of the door; my bed 
knocked, and doors slammed by an awkward 
chambermaid; and cakes sent me by my cook 
which would make good shoe leather, — I got 
angry. I had both nerves and dyspepsia, and 
^-was not an oyster! How could I help it? 
I did n't try. I ordered the cakes down-stairs 
and the chambermaid out of the room; and 
when told at this crisis that " the doctor said I 
must not get excited," asserted my rights, and 
exclaimed, " I don't care what the doctor says ; 
besides he does not know the truth." The little 
girl's definition of the ninth commandment was, 
** When nobody did nothing, and somebody 
went and told of it." That is just what you 
have been doing; you have been "bearing false 
witness against your neighbor." You shall not 
call me impatient and irritable, just because I 
will not be treated like an oyster. I am not 
one ; and will not submit to mere existence in 



34 



MUSINGS. 



a shell ! to be put on broiling coals, and say- 
nothing ! Call me a cat! an eel! a monkey! a 
Bengal tiger! or even a locomotive! but — not 
an oyster! 



V 






SNOW. 

" The snow fell fast and thick. He . . . thought that those 
white ashes strewn upon his hopes and misery were suited 
to them well." — DiCKENS, 

|HE lamps are not yet lit. The boys 
are making merry with their snowballs 
and their sleds ; the people are hurry- 
ing by; and the housemaid opposite is pretend- 
ing to close the parlor-shutters early, to keep 
out the snow, but, meanwhile, carrying on a 
flirtation with the neighboring coachman. I 
lay down my work, and sit and watch it all 
through the gloaming — the boys, the passers- 
by, the girl and her lover; and, as the snow 
falls faster and faster, and the children shout 
louder and merrier, there comes to me the 
memory of "the long ago." I forget ''the 

35 



36 MUSINGS OF A 

weary, relentless years " which have passed, 
and am a child again. A child in the old home 
far away, peering out, through the chintz cur- 
tains, at the snow falling as this does now. 

Ah ! how the whole scene comes back, of 
that family room. The wood-fire, crackling 
and sending forth a bright glow, lights up the 
home scene. The two boys in the corner 
playing ninepins; the tea-table waiting for 
my father's coming; my mother sitting by the 
fire, with her baby in her arms, listening to 
" our eldest," who, in the next room, with the 
door slightly ajar, is playing what we children 
call her twilight music. A girl a little older 
than myself, and a boy a little younger, join 
me at the window, and we talk in subdued 
tones, for we know that this is our mother's 
hour for rest. We discuss plans for the mor- 
row. If the snow be deep, talk of building 
snow forts, with the help of the other brothers. 
There are to be two of these forts, a lady in 
each, protected by several knights, — she to 
make balls for her defenders. And " how we 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 37 

love the snow, and hope that there will be a 
great deal." But I do not like to tell the 
others of the thoughts which had eome to me, 
(as I stood there alone,) of the poor little 
children who had no warm mittens like mine ; 
and of my little friend who had died the 
winter before, and was buried under the snow. 
I throw off these graver thoughts, shake back 
my curls, and join with zest in the anticipation 
of to-morrow's sport; meanwhile snuggling 
closely to my little brother, who, putting his 
arm around my neck, says, **I choose you, 
curly-head, for my lady." Then, as the other 
sister, looking up, remarks, reproachfully, 

"J , you always choose her;" he answers, 

with his rare and knightly smile, " Well, it is 
because she is the weakest, and I the strongest 
of us all." 

Oh, little knight! true knight! it was not 
long that " the weakest of us all " had your 
strong arm and chivalrous heart to protect her 
from life's snows. Ah, me ! ah, me ! I re- 
member a time, not many years after, when 



38 MUSINGS OF A 

that arm was palsied, and that heart cold in the 
death struggle. And the snow beat against the 
window, and — on his grave — and, oh! bro- 
ther ! brother ! though you went from us rest- 
ing on a stronger Arm than your own, it was 
long, very long, before I could feel you were 
above the snows, and bathing in the sunshine. 
But 

.... "forgotten things 
Stumble back strangely:" .... 

the old home, my child-life, and that winter's 
eve, haunt me still. I hear my sister's song ; 
then footsteps in the hall. I rush for my 
evening kiss ; I feel my father's hand upon my 
head, and hear ** little daughter " in tones I 
shall never hear again till I reach that home, 
where he waits to welcome inc. I turn to say 
"father," and no father is there. Instead of 
" our eldest's " song, I hear the snow beating 
against the window. 

It has all vanished ! — the bright fire, the old 
home, the loved ones. The curly-headed child 
is a middle-aged woman now, with none of the 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 39 

home faces around her — only portraits on the 
wall, and graves covered by the snow, and a 
memory of the past. I turn from the window 
sadly, shiveringly ; and, drawing my chair to 
the register, say, '' Snow, I do not love you ! 
You are cold, cruel, unsympathizing ! What 
care you for my loss, for my loneliness, for my 
parted ones ? What care you for my dead, as 
you beat pitilessly upon their graves, hiding 
the verdure, which spoke of their resurrection? 
No, no ; you speak of death : I do not love you! 
And not alone of death, O snow, do you 
speak, but of estrangements, too. You come 
down, noiselessly at first, from we scarcely 
know where. There is no darkness to herald 
your approach — no storm-cloud, like good, 
honest rain ; only a thin veil which hides the 
sun, which grows thicker and thicker, till it 
shuts out all that is bright and beautiful in 
nature." And so with estrangements. At first 
a thin veil ; we scarcely know where it is from 
or what it is. 

" Only a shadow 'twixt my friend and me," 



40 ■ MUSINGS OF A 

But a coldness like snow comes ; and the 
shadow deepens, thickens, till all brightness 
and beauty are shut out from our life. Our 
hearts grow cold, and we learn to thank God 
for the loved ones covered by the snow here^ 
and basking in the sunshine yoitder. Oh ! they 
are nearer than the living. 

" Space may keep friends apart ; 
Death has a mighty thrall ; 
There is another gulf 

Harder to cross than all." 

And how we long for the Sun to melt these 
snows ; to dissipate these shadows ; to warm 
these frozen hearts, and give us back in another 
and a better life the beauty and brightness the 
shadows have hidden in this. 

The snow is coming down furiously now. 
The lamp in front of our house is just being 
lighted, and I, getting up, return to the window, 
and by its light watch the passers-by. There 
goes a newsboy, crying the evening paper. 
Look how cruelly the snow beats down upon 
him, finding its way into his little neck, and in 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 4I 

that hole in his trousers. See how he fights with 
it, and knocks it off; then calls "third e-di-tion," 
then blows his poor little purple fingers ! Is 
the snow beautiful ? Poor little newsboy ! you 
do not see any beauty in it. 

Nor does that woman with the thin face, and 
thinner shawl, as she hurries to a fireless 
home, — to a home where poverty cannot stop 
the cracks, nor mend the roof and windows to 
keep out the snow. 

" God help the poor when it snows ! " Now 
comes a man with an unmistakable something 
about him ; the quick glance, the manner in 
which he turns up his coat-collar, and the firm, 
short, though tired step, all proclaiming him a 
business-man, and not a prosperous one, either. 
He has not the air of a man whose coachman 
has neglected coming for him; nor of one who 
has missed a car. His whole bearing is that of 
a person accustomed to endurance; and we 
know by the way he braces himself against the 
storm, that he has a long walk before him, and 
no extra pennies to spend in riding. He is 
4^ 



42 MUSINGS OF A 

evidently a brave man, perhaps a Christian ; 
but he is tired and worn, and walks along with 
that sullen air which seems to say, " Of course 
it snows ; and the pavement must be cleaned, 
and paid for ; and the boys will spoil their new 
boots running in the snow." Does he love the 
snow, think you? Or does that seamstress 
yonder, going home tired from her work, with 
just strength enough to get there, without 
meeting any obstacles on the way ? No, no ; 
nor do I either. I may draw my shawl ever so 
closely about me, and close the blinds to keep 
out the snow ; but I cannot shut from me the 
thought of the tired, the homeless, and the 
poor, out in the pitiless storm. 

And yet the poet talks of the " beautiful 
snow !'' Beautiful! So is death, if it be calm, 
and peaceful, and natural ; or — so it looks to 
us. But let it come in fury, or battle, or mur- 
der, or pestilence, or by some terrible railroad 
or steamboat accident, — the recital of which 
causes the strongest nerves to thrill, — and then, 
is death beautiful ? Has violence any beauty ? 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 43 

Oh, no ! and snow, you are only beautiful, or 
appear to be, when you come down quietly, in 
great starry flakes, falling gently, gently. 

I had a letter lately from a young physician 
living up among the northern lakes. He writes : 
" It has snowed forty demons for two days and 
two nights ; and still it comes. The roads are 
blocked up, and I can only get to my patients 
on snow-shoes ; and the light of day is entirely 
excluded, from even our second story, by great 
snow-drifts. Thank God that we have plenty 
in the house to eat ; and may He take pity on 
those who have not, for no human power can 
reach them now." Is such snow beautiful ? 
Do you love it? I do not. I accept it as a 
necessary evil, just as I do all of God's myste- 
rious dispensations ; but I don't love it, even 
though it be "the poor man's manure." Ma- 
nure has its uses, to be sure ; yet is there any- 
thing particularly lovely or lovable in it, 
though it does make things grow ? Trial and 
discipline develop us, and make us grow (spi- 
ritually); still, we are not very fond of them; 



44 MUSINGS OF A 

nor does God expect or wish us to be ; only to 
bear them with patience and resignation. And 
so with snow : I try to be resigned to it, espe- 
cially as my lot is cast in regions where it is 
likely to snow several months during the 
year ; yet, if ever I break the tenth command- 
ment, it is in envying those who live under 
Southern skies, and scarcely ever see it. 

Yes, the love of snow is a vanished illusion ! 
and scarcely of my youth — it vanished with 
my childhood. Even sleigh-riding had no 
charm for me after I grew older ; and I never 
could understand the charm it had for others. 

There has been a great deal of "twaddle" 
written, and a great number of stories founded, 
'^ on the fact'' of sleigh-riding being conducive 
to explanations between lovers. I don't be- 
lieve it is — not true love. It may encourage 
flirtations; but how should the ringing of bells, 
and the most desperate attempts to keep one's 
feet, hands, and nose warm, be the time for a 
declaration of love; or even for drawing hearts 
closer together? There may be fun, frolic, 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 45 

gayety, in sleigh-riding; but no sentiment, 
poetry, nor real happiness. Give me balmy air; 
give me trees, flowers, soft showers, verdure ; 
the shadows on the mountains and in the val- 
leys ; give me the grain fields and the reapers ; 
the singing of birds and the glorious sunshine, 
— all of which speak of life, poetry, and love. 
Yes, give me sunshine. Let me die in spring- 
time, when all nature bursts the bands of death, 
that I may think of my springing into eternal 
life ; but not in winter, when the snow, as one 
great winding-sheet, wraps the earth. No, 
Snow ! 

" I love thee [not] , all unlovely as thou seem'st, 
And dreaded as thou art." 






RIGHTS. 

If wrong our hearts, our heads are right in vain." 

Young. 

MONG the many vanished illusions of 
my youth, I count the utility of con- 
tending for rights. I mean the talk 
and bluster so prevalent in these days, that 
one can scarcely take up a periodical, go to a 
social gathering, or even (I blush to say it) to 
the house of God, without hearing this slang 
talk — I can give it no better name — about 
rights. 

It is rights of husband and rights of wife ; 
rights of parent and rights of child ; rights of 
master and rights of servant ; rights of white 
man and rights of black. A right to do every- 

46 



MUSINGS. 47 

thing which human wisdom can conceive or 
human passion dictate. • 

Now, as I intimated above, all this talk is 
useless. If you have rights^ — if, conscientiously 
and religiously, you feel them to be rights, — 
why take them, if you can get them ; and you 
usually can. Sometimes, I admit, you cannot. 
Thejt, certainly, there is no use of contending; 
especially when we consider that human nature 
is so constituted that the simple discussion of 
any question rouses opposition. Don't you 
know what your rights are, without discussion ? 
Is it necessary to call a convention to find out? 
And cannot your neighbor take care of his own 
rights without your help ? 

Of course, I am not speaking nozv of those 
great questions of right and wrong in the sight 
of God. These are not discussed in this nine- 
teenth century ! 

Who, for instance, cares anything about that 
great wro72g abiding in our midst; — off in those 
pleasant valleys, where a people calling them- 
selves a part of this Christian land (the laws of 



48 MUSINGS OF A 

which make bigamy a crime) hold the right, 
and practise it, to multiply their wives ad libitum ? 
And yet — and yet — these men and women, 
all around us, prate of ''women's rights^ Her 
right to elevation, to culture, to equality ! Oh, 
sisters ! so long as the Turkish harem, with 
more than Turkish degradation, exists in Utah, 
— and Utah is a free, enlightefted territory of 
your own Union, — cease your cry for rights; 
take what you have, and be thankful for them. 
With the right to glorious womanhood — to a 
home where you may reign sole and respected 
mistress ; aye, queen, if you will. The right 
by instilling good principles into the young 
minds about you, and the expression of noble 
Christian sentiments in social life, to influence 
the future of your land and the world. Then 
you can vote, too ! at least I did, and do; and 
neither waited for the " Woman's Convention " 
to determine my right, nor for the law's permis- 
sion. And, wfiat is more, shall not fold my vote 
up, and hide it, as these men do. Am not 
ashamed of it; you are all welcome to a glance 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 49 

at it. You cannot cheat me out of it ; and no 
fraud or bribery can prevent my winning the 
day, 

I vote (in the first place) to be a zvoman. Am 
glad I am a woman, proud to be a woman, and 
intend to be one. Nobody shall persuade me 
to ape men. I will not wear boots higher than 
my ankle ; nor standing collars ; nor mannish 
hats. And I will stay in the house in wet 
weather, or dry, and take care of my family; 
and make pickles and preserve fruit, and darn 
stockings, instead of going out to doctor some 
man with the small-pox; or to harangue a 
sleepy jury in a dirty court-house ; or to travel 
two or three hundred miles to collect a bad 
debt. 

And then I vote (in the second place) to 
know my ozun business better than any one 
else knows it ; and, if it be necessary, shall go 
out, in fair weather or foul, to make a living 
for loved ones ; or to save any poor soul from 
ruin ; or to prevent myself from being cheated 
or imposed upon. 

5 D 



50 MUSINGS OF A 

I vote even to force my way, alone, through 
a crowd ; or to bear my testimony in court, if 
necessity impel, and not ''faint at the idea." 
And to stop in the street, and, by calling the 
police, rescue a little boy from the hands of a 
big boy, when my brother man is either too in- 
different or too cowardly to interfere. Also to 
attend to my own baggage in travelling, and 
not trust to the tender mercies of a chamber- 
" maid, qr the honesty of officials, generally, 
even if I must go to the "captain's office." 
And when the " ladies' cars " are so filled by 
men that I can get a seat nowhere, shall take 
one in the smoking-car, and be deaf to all 
hints which imply that my presence there is 
improper^ inasmuch as it prevents some of the 
*^ stronger sex" from indulging in their usual 
and 7iecessary recreations of gambling and 
smoking. All this^ and a good deal more of 
the same sort, I vote to do, and shall do it. 
Other women can act as they please; I wait not 
for theirs, or any man's decision, permission, or 
approval. Can I wait? Have I time? Has 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 5I 

any man or woman time to ask what are his 
rights ? Must not necessity or, rather, Provi- 
dence determine. I am sick of this puling talk 
in both men and women about false position. 
False position ! Who put you there ? Aye, I 
know what you will answer : " Command of 
parents, or circumstances, or necessity." Well, 
if these reasons be true in either case (I say it 
reverently), God put you there, for He says, 
*' Children, obey your parents ; " and He con- 
trols circumstances and necessity. Then how 
dare you talk of false position, if the position 
be given you by the all-wise; if the hand which 
guided you to it be His who is called " the 
Truth " ? But rarely do parents command, 
though they may influence, children in the choice 
of their life-work; and, as to the other plea, 
how often do we let pride, wilfulness, indolence, 
and want of decision control us, and call them 
circumstances and necessity. Ah ! men and 
women, you want to be somebody — to gain 
name and fame — to be placed on the summit 
of the hill without climbing — ■ to get your 



52 MUSINGS OF A 

rights by loud talk, which costs nothing ; and 
make no sacrifice of pride, or temper, or self- 
indulgence to do so. Then this talk of rights 
and false positions is often an effort, — and a 
mighty poor one, too, — to excuse the half- 
hearted manner in which we discharge duties. 

"If anything is worth doing at all, it is worth 
doing well." What business have we to be 
half-hearted in anything? 

" He that is born, is listed : life is war." 

Woman ! because you happen to be intel- 
lectual and cultivated, — yet choosing to marry 
a man in modest circumstances, and to sur- 
round yourself with home joys and home 
cares, you do not find so much time for literary 
pursuits as in your girlhood, — are you to neglect 
your duties as wife and mother, and excuse 
yourself by the old plea q>{ uncongenial pursuits f 
Shall you dare talk of having no time to im- 
prove your mind ? I know a noble woman, 
with more intellect and culture than most of 
you, who, married to a farmer, and with but 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 53 

" one maid of all work," is spoken of for her 
thrift, and management, and industry through- 
out the ** country side." Yet this woman finds 
time for a large correspondence, for much 
general reading, and intellectual social converse 
with husband, children, and guests. Few wo- 
men are as well posted ; and few can talk as well 
on every subject. "Well," you answer, "she- 
is a remarkable woman, and should not be given 
as an instance." But that is just the reason why 
I do give her as one. If yon are a remarkable 
woman, you can do the same ; and, if you are 
not^ do not prate about your intellect and rights; 
you have quite as many of the latter as you 
can keep and use. It is not from among rich 
women of leisure that our great and useful 
women usually come. Those best known to 
fame have most always been women who have 
written, or thought, or acted in odd minutes 
stolen from necessary recreation. You have 
only to read Hannah More's biography, or ac- 
quaint yourself with the early literary efforts 
of our own Mrs. Hale, to ascertain the truth of 
5* 



54 MUSINGS OF A 

my assertion. No, no ; women do not talk of 
want of time, when you can find time to dress, 
and visit, and gossip. 

And YOU, strong man ! whose life, so far, has 
been a failure for want of energy, decision, or 
(worse still) moral courage. Do not tell me 
of your false position and "unappreciated 
genius," or, putting on a Byronic air, talk bit- 
terly of women and blighted hopes ; intimat- 
ing that some woman has to answer for your 
failure. Do not come to me with such stuff — I 
don't believe in it. Have you so little of moral 
or intellectual strength even, that the smile or 
frown of any woman should make or mar your 
life? Ah! many of you have. I know it — I 
know it only too well. The strongest among 
you are apt to be Samsons. Yet, should it be 
so ? Would it be so, if you had the best kind 
of strength? — the strength which lives for 
something else besides self and selfish pas- 
sions ; which goes on doing its duty, seeking 
not to be understood or appreciated by any 
save Him who hath promised a seat on His 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 55. 

throne to "him that overcometh." Oh, men 
and women! brothers and sisters all! take the 
rights which are yours — which God has given 
you. Your right to manhood and womanhood 
to individuality, to character, to Christianity, to 
prayer, to heaven. Dare to be yourself and 
nobody else — your redeemed, Christianized, 
sanctified self — yet, still yourself. Ape no one. 
Neither sell nor give yourself body and soul to 
any mortal. Let no man or woman have 
power enough over you to change your nature, 
or make your life a failure. Alone you must 
stand before the judgment bar, and answer for 
yourself for the life given you to make the 
most of. And then, too, there is so much to 
do in this world of ours. We have but one life, 
and there is no time to talk of rights and false 
positions, nor even of failures and misspent time. 
Ah! you middle-aged, if your youth has 
known some great sorrow, and you have been 
weak or wicked enough to sink into inaction 
or rush into crime — rise up ! " Redeem the 
time ; " you can if you will, for though 

" Those wounds men give themselves heal ill," 



56 MUSINGS OF A 

still they do heal; and the best way to heal 
<2;rj/ wound is to keep it bound up, out of the 
air; not looking at it often ; and by the use of 
proper food, healthy air, and exercise get the 
blood in the right condition. 

But there comes up the cry from thousands — 
and it is the war-cry of these Rights' people — 
" What is my life-work? What is my mission? 
How shall / occupy my time, and expend my 
energies?" And I answer — that you should 
be ashamed to have any time to occupy, you 
strong, healthy people, in a world where there 
is so much vice to put down ; so much sorrow 
to sympathize with; so much suffering to 
soothe ; so many souls to save ; and your own 
salvation to work out with fear and trembling; 
Aye ! even the weak ones, bodily — even for 
those there is work. For those invalids who, 
recognizing the hand of God in their physical 
sufferings, and bearing them with Christian 
fortitude, yet cry out ** My days are past, my 
purposes are broken off." And I am not 
about to insult them with the ordinary method 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 5/ 

of consolation — shall not tell them that their 
special mission is to discipline well people by- 
trying their patience. I should like to know 
if well people do not try sick people occasion- 
ally ? Shall not attempt to argue the case just 
now, though it does rather come under the 
head of rights ; only ask you to cast up the 
balance sheet for yourselves, and see if it does 
not come out '' quits." 

No, no, friends ; these invalids of ours have 
a higher, a holier mission ! It is to sympa- 
thize and counsel. Living out of the world as 
they necessarily must, and feeling nearer to the 
other than healthy people, their judgment is 
not so apt to be warped by the customs of 
society, or the opinions of men. They look at 
things more as dying men look at them. They 
have been to 

« The Border Land .... 
Where small seemed great as weighed in scales 
Held by God's hand alone," 

and we all instinctively feel confidence in their 
judgment. Then, too, if they be not very 



58 MUSINGS OF A 

selfish people, they are glad for awhile to forget 
their own suffering and contracted life, and are 
interested in whatever enables them to do so. 
They are thankful for those other lives so full 
of romance — so "big with events" — for those 
other people who have so much to tell ; there- 
fore are sympathizing and attentive listeners. 
Yes, my sick friend, you can have a mission if 
you will, and a noble one, too. You can feel 
for the young in their joys and their sorrows; 
their love-tales will they pour into your ear, 
being sure of an interested listener; and you 
who know (who so well) how little worth is 
pride, and how much worth is patience , will 
counsel the putting down of the former, and 
the exercising of the latter; and God only 
knows how many breaches you may heal — 
how many hearts save from breaking. 

And to the broken-hearted and the aged — 
to those who are already beginning to feel 
what desolation means — to them you have a 
special message. Knowing, as you do, how 
"thin the partition wall" which divides us from 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 59 

eternity, you can for them lift the veil, and 
show them the land 

"Where the hidden wound is healed, 
Where the blighted light reblooms, 
Where the smitten heart the freshness 
Of its buoyant youth resumes." 

Oh ! who has not a mission ? Who can say 
he has no life-work ? No one. The only dif- 
ficulty is that we frequently lack the wisdom, 
or time, or strength, to accomplish it. "What- 
soever your hand findeth to do, do with all 
your might." If yoiL have not the strength or 
time to finish it, some one else will. People do 
not plant trees, expecting to see them grow to 
m.aturity during their own lifetime; they know 
that they will, perhaps, need the tending and 
watering of the next generation. And so with 
your life-work, my friend; sometimes one but 
finishes another man's work, sometimes but 
commences for another to finish. Indeed, we 
are all but doing parts of one great work after 
all — but " clay in the hands of the potter." Do- 
ing some great thing, or some little, as He wills. 



60 MUSINGS OF A 

Then, too, by sticking to the above text, you 
can find your rights, or, rather, your work, 
which is what you pretend to mean by rights. 
"Whatsoever your \id.ndji7tdeih," — not whatso- 
ever it seeketh, for there is a great difference in 
the meaning of the two words. In seeking, 
" we make search ; we pursue ; we endeavor to 
gain." In finding, "we discover; we meet 
with ; reach or attain to ; hit on by accident ; 
obtain something lost." 

Alas! how many of you find your life-work, 
your rights, close by your own firesides — 
could get and keep them without even the lift- 
ing of your voice, and yet go forth over the 
world seeking a mission ! You wear out your 
forces, and expend your ammunition in main- 
taining your riglit to your neighbor's field, 
instead of keeping your powder, armor, and 
strength for the real " battle of life," and for 
your true enemies — "the world, the flesh, and 
the devil." Ah, friends! soldiers on the same 
battle-field ! let us remember one thing when we 
claim and talk of our rights, — that other people 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 6l 

have rights^ too. Let us see to it that we do 
not infringe upon our brother's rights^ when con- 
tending for our own. I often, when Hstening to 
discussions on this vexed question, am re- 
minded of a Httle incident which happened to 
me some years since. 

Next door to me Hved a couple who rejoiced 
in the possession of several unruly sons. As 
our yards came close together, these boys were 
in the habit of annoying my servants in various 
ways, such as unhooking lines from the fence 
when full of clean clothes, or snow-balling them 
when hanging up said clothes. My Biddy bore 
all with exemplary patience (being good-natured 
and fond of children), till the following en- 
croachment upon her rights. The young gen- 
tlemen, one day in the Spring, chose to play 
ball so near the line-fence, that every stroke of 
the bat sent it into our yard ; when the oldest, 
and most courageous of the boys would ring 
our bell, and demand the right to search for his 
ball in our yard. Five times the right was ac- 
corded him through courtesy; but at the sixth, 



62 MUSINGS OF A 

Biddy (it being washing-day), revolted, and 
coming into the parlor, said, "Indade, ma'am, I 
don't want to lave, but I did n't come here to 
wait on those childer next door. Will the 
misthress plase to spake to them, for they 
worritt my life out complately." Thus adjured, 
I quietly told the " childer " that was the last 
time he could look for his ball in our yard, as 
my servant could not be disturbed going to the 
door every few minutes. Still, the seventh time 
the ball came over, and the bell rang. I at- 
tended to the latter myself, and informed 
"Young America" that he could not come in; 
at which he blustered, and said "he guessed 
he 'd see who had the best right to his ball." I 
told him that I did not dispute his right to his 
ball; but I did \.o \i\s looking for it every five 
minutes in my yard, and — shut the door in his 
face. The ball lay and rotted in one corner of 
my flower-beds ; the boys got another, and it 
never by any accident landed outside their own 
precincts. 

Friends, do not play ball too near your 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 63 

neighbor's line -fence; and if by accident it 
happen to go into his yard, do not demand 
your right to look for it there. He may accord 
you permission through courtesy, provided you 
do not wear out his patience by too frequent 
repetition. No, no ; keep to your own field — 
inside your own fence; you will find your 
rights there, and plenty to do without going 
abroad to seek them. 

Finally, to all I would say — to men and 
women ; husbands and wives ; parents and 
children; masters and servants — do not spend 
time and strength in talking of each other's 
duty. " Be not busybodies in other men's 
matters," but " do your own duty in that state of 
life in which it hath pleased God to call you." 
Do it bravely, independently, conscientiously ; 
caring not for man's censure or approval, but 
taking the " word of Inspiration " only for your 
guidance. Quietly and firmly do right, trusting 
to God to take care of the consequences. 





THOSE MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS. 

There is a divinity which shapes our ends, 
Rough hew them as we will." — Shakspeare. 

H ! how they come to us all ! Oftener 
and with more power to us in middle 
life. Might have been I Might have 
been ! What ? And why not ? Why a thou- 
sand things, and for as many reasons. There 
is a pathos, a sadness, a whole history in that 
one sentence. It is a perfect wail over a 
mistaken, misspent life; misused energies or 
talents ; lost opportunities ; friends dead or es- 
tranged ; health and youth gone. I know that 
no man ever utters that cry in earnest till his 
heart has ached, as hearts only ache when the 
first brightness of life has fled. Is not that the 

64 



MUSINGS. 65 

reason why memories have always a strain of 
sadness in them ; because we think of what 
was, and what might have been ; and contrast it 
with what is? Do we ever attain to the life 
which might have been? And why not? I 
said there were a thousand reasons, and so 
there are. It may have been our own fault, or 
some loving chastening from "Our Father's" 
hand, which has made us and our life what they 
are, and not what we thought they might be. 

How much oftener than any other reason is 
it "the first mistaken impulse of an undisci- 
plined heart?" Ah! Copperfield is not the 
only man who chose a Dora when he might 
have had an Agnes, nor the only one who re- 
pented it when it was too late. 

Such a man has thoughts, hopes, aspirations, 
ambitions, which the " child-wife " cannot un- 
derstand. She may be bright, sweet, and pretty ; 
but she cannot share his disappointments, nor 
enter into his joys. He may have capabilities 
of greatness and usefulness, and — unwilling 
to give up his life's aim — is 
6* E 



66 MUSINGS OF A 

"Too much with the minister. 
Too little with the wife." 

And — then he is not happy. Or, determining 
to be happy, he gives up youthful hopes and 
tastes, content to play with ** Jip," and feel the 
pretty arms around his neck, the sweet face 
looking thanks, and — then he is not great. 
Yet there come times in his life when memory 
brings back all he meant to be, all he meant to 
do. As he sits alone, dreaming, he sees a wo- 
man with an earnest face, who urged him on- 
ward, ever. A woman to whom his fame, his 
usefulness, were dearer than even his dear pres- 
ence; and who would have thought no toil, 
no sacrifice, too great which helped him to win 
the crown. 

He is famous now ! His brows are crowned 
with laurel ! and she — his Agnes, his female 
Warwick, his "king-maker" — welcomes her 
hero with that voice, those eyes, that smile, 
which had been his inspiration. Alas ! alas ! 
he dreams ! he dreams ! He is among the 
might-have-beens! and the voice of his "child- 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 6/ 

wife " rouses him to what is. Pity him ! pity 
him! 

And pity, too, that woman who cannot read 
"Locksley Hall" without shuddering; who 
I cries out 

" Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of 
youth ! " 

That woman who is "puppet to a father's 
threat," or — want; or who, for her own pride's 
sake, or any other reason, save true love, binds 
herself to one who, (not understanding her 
soul's wants) cuts across those "finer feelings" 
with which women are so bountifully blessed, 
or — cursed ; which shall I say ? Ah ! such a 
woman may have learned to love her husband ; 
for I hold that loving her, and being her hus- 
band, she must, if he be ordinarily good and 
agreeable. 

And yet — and yet there comes a time — 
there come many times, let her be as pure and 
constant as she may, when 

" AH too sore the fretful household cares, 
Free of the contrast of remembered things." 



6S MUSINGS OF A 

A time when trial and trouble come; when 
things go wrong, and her husband's temper 
gives way (as all men's do) ; when her life is 
not what she dreamt it would be — not what 
she might have made it; and her love not being 
of the kind which "strengthens her to brave 
endurance," she cries out "^V might have been — 
oh ! it might have been!' Or let the man she 
has married falter in his allegiance — be false to 
his marriage vows, then — God pity her ! 
God help her ! for man cannot. She is a good 
woman, indeed, whose memory at such a time 
does not bring back the face of one who was 
truer — one better loved, who might have been 
— what? Aye! something nobler; something 
better and greater; perhaps blessed by her 
love — by her presence. Perhaps his face has 
met her in the street — has somewhere crossed 
her path ; and it is the face of one not happy, 
not blessed; and the world speaks of his youth- 
ful promise, and what he might have been ; but 
for her — then, oh ! then — pity her ! pity her ! 
for 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 69 

" I don't think it is such a comfort 
One has only one's self to blame." 

And to blame, too, in the wrecking or unhap- 
piness of another life. Pride may enable one to 
bear one's own pain — one's own trouble ; but 
the failure of another life is a hard burden, 
sister, and one under which grace alone will 
sustain you. Turn resolutely from the past — 
from the might-have-beens you cannot undo. 
No man (save your husband, father, or brother) 
has a right to any effort in his behalf except 
your prayers. Do not, in trying to right one 
wrong, commit a greater. Look only to what 
you may do — to what you can do for that 
other man — your husbaitd. He has a right io 
every effort you can make to raise him morally 
— aye, even intellectually; for though you can- 
not give him brains, you can influence him to 
use what he has. Tell me not that 

"As the husband is, the wife is." 

It is generally just the opposite, at least socially 
and morally, and sometimes even intellectually. 



70 MUSINGS OF A 

So try it, sister ! try it ! You have a great life- 
work before you ! Infuse your husband with 
noble sentiments, with high aims. What 
care you if he do " steal your thunder," if it be 
good thunder, and the world acknowledge it as 
such ? What matters it ? It gives you repre- 
sentation! and that is all we want; 'tis the height 
of woman's ambition in this age ! Besides, you 
took your husband " for better, for worse ; " 
what right have you to complain because there 
is more worse than better? How can you be 
sure it might not have been the same with that 
other man ? Be content ; the cross might have 
been harder to bear. And brother, with the 
" child-wife," be thankful it is no worse. It 
might have been in these days of unfaithful 
wives. Be thankful that your wife is a child in 
innocence, in purity, in truth. Be thankful that 
she does throw her arms around your neck, and 
yours only ; and that she does nothing more cul- 
pable than draw pictures, and play with *' Jip," 
when she should have been attending to the 
dinner. You can be good, if you cannot be 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 7I 

great. You have chosen your lot, and must 
abide by it. You can make one little woman 
happy — one home blessed, if you cannot re- 
form the world. 

Reader, these two instances of the many, 
many might-have-beens come the most readily 
to my musings, being the reasons oftenest given 
(by both men and women) for failing to be 
either great or good — this mismating, this un- 
congeniality. Now either we give it our great- 
est sympathies, or else condemn as morbid and 
sentimental the whole matter. / can do 
neither ; I am but musing on facts ! and facts 
these are, as many a man and woman who 
reads these pages will testify. I cannot call it 
sentimental merely, for — ah me! ah me! I 
have seen energy, and strength, and health, 
and even principle, give way under such mem- 
ories. I would counsel and comfort, but not 
blame, thinking what, under temptation, with- 
out grace, we all might have been. 

But neither do my greatest sympathies go 
with those men and women who are but reaping 



J2 MUSINGS OF A 

the consequences of their own sowing. I have 
only to look around me to see other men and 
women so much worthier, who, though true to 
all their nobler instincts, yet cry out " It might 
have been." 

I see a business man stop to gaze upon his 
neighbor's home of luxury, at his carriage, 
and other signs of "wealth. I see him turn 
away with a gesture of impatience, which many 
would call envy or avarice. I know it is 
neither. He is among the might-have-beens. 
He thinks if only the war had not come, or 
that bank had not broken, how his loved wife 
(whose steps are growing feebler) might have 
been riding in her carriage — might have had her 
servants. How his children, instead of drag- 
ging along feebly in the hot city through the 
dog-days, might have been luxuriating in fresh 
air at a pleasant country-seat, or in salt breezes 
at the sea-side. Do you wonder that for the 
moment he is unmanned ? And shall we not 
sympathize with him, and respect him, too? 
with the man whose might-have-beens for his 
loved ones leave no room for selfish regrets? 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 73 

Or with that woman become famous too late ; 
when the father who would have been proud 
of her; the mother who would have bathed 
her aching head, and soothed her unstrung 
nerves ; the brother who would have shared in 
her pursuits, and partaken of her success, are 
lying beneath the sod? I see her turn away 
wearily from the world's applause — from con- 
gratulations of later friends, murmuring, " // 
might have been ; but now — ah ! 

"'What avails half life's success, 
No early friends can see or share.' " 

Friends, I might multiply instances — your 
own hearts tell you so. There are childless 
mothers, whose little ones are safely garnered 
away from the storms of life, yet who, when 
they see other mothers, with sons and daugh- 
ters growing up about them, cry out " It might 
have been." 

Oh, those dead! our children, our parents, 
brothers, sisters, friends ! 
7 



74 MUSINGS OF A 

" How doth Death speak of our beloved, 
When it hath laid them low ? 



It takes each failing on our part, 

And brands it in upon the heart 

With caustic power and cruel smart. 

The small neglect which may have pained, 

A giant stature will have gained, 

When it can never be explained. 

The little gift from out our store 

WTiich might have cheered some cheerless hour, 



But never will be needed more ! " 



Surely, if we have hearts, for us all are these 
might-have-beens. Sometimes they come to us 
with overwhelming power years after our loss. 
Indeed, as years go on, and one by one is taken 
from our love — our care ; as our graves thick- 
en, and the seats in our households, the friends 
of our hearts grow less, how, at times, the 
longing to live again the past — to turn the 
might-have-been into it was — becomes almost 
painful. And if this longing, this heart-break- 
ing makes us patient and loving with every 
little child, tender and attentive to every gray 
head, and lovingly regardful of those friends 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 75 

left US, why, then, it is not a mere morbid senti- 
mentalism ; it is a feeling for which to thank 
God. But we have our living as well as our 
dead. There are lost minutes, and unsaid 
words, and unwritten letters. There is the 
letter which never reached its destination, or 
came too late. The letter which contained 
foolish gossip, or foul slander, which separated 
hearts. Oh ! the seemingly little things which 
change our whole lives ! Sometimes they are 
almost ludicrous in their very sadness. 

We scarcely know whether to laugh at or be 
sorry for the political candidate who might 
have been feted, caressed, and serenaded as the 
people's idol; but who, by the loss of a few 
votes, becomes a by-word in men's mouths, is 
abused by the press, and burnt in effigy by the 
boys. Then the man who might have been a 
hero and a patriot, but who, by the loss of a 
battle, becomes a rebel, a prisoner, and a crimi- 
nal. Or he who might have been a monarch, 
but who, by the birth of a wee baby, remains a 
subject. 



76 MUSINGS OF A 

Ah ! 't is sad, and 't is funny ! How I pity 
you all ! how I pity myself! how I pity fallen 
human nature, which is ever crying out it 
might have bee7i ! Ever uttering it in sadness, 
almost in murmuring against a wise Providence 
which has withheld blessings, taken friends, or 
permitted us to waste opportunity and talent, 
and fall into error. 

If we would only feel instead 

.** That we may be always 
What we might have been," 

and gather up our energies for another struggle 
in the years that we may still call ours. 

But in our might-have-beens^ how often we 
are mistaken. We imagine that we might 
have been rich, or great, or famous, or happy, 
under certain circumstances ; and we may not 
have been any such thing at all. We may 
have needed failure to give us wisdom ; study 
to give us wit; trial and suffering to develop 
us ; and losses enough to make us thankful for 
blessings left us. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 7/ 

How many fine poems, great works of fiction, 
or any books which speak to the heart ; how 
many great statesmen and philanthropists; how 
many of our finest, strongest, best men and 
women, think you, do we owe to those might- 
have-beens? I doubt much if a man can be 
great without them ; and so would thank God 
for them, as I would for the rain which makes 
my flowers grow, and my trees bear fruit. 

Then, too, why not use these might-have- 
beens in another and happier sense ? In thank- 
fulness for what has been spared us. For the 
suffering, and trial, and sin, and loss which 
might-have-been, and — are not. We might have 
been homeless, friendless, outcast, penniless, 
and hopeless, or — dead, dead without hope. 
Ah ! we who have firesides and friends left, and 
know where to get " our daily bread," and have 
been permitted to commit no great crime ; we 
who are hving, loving, hoping men and women 
in a free land, — in a land where the cross is 
planted, — let us look up with radiant faces when 
we say " It might have been!' 
7* 





PATCHWORK. 

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn ; good and ill to- 
gether." — Shakspeare. 

HAVE not the slightest intention, 
dear madam, of giving you any new 
devices for patchwork — look in " Go- 
dey's " for them. Have no passion that way ; 
and if I had, could not gratify it, for the very 
best of reasons — want of material. 

My poor patchbox has so many demands 
upon it to supply patches for the numerous silk, 
worsted, and cotton quilts ; for the afghans, 
chair-covers, sofa-pillows, etc., etc., of all my 
friends and acquaintances, that it is always in 
an exhausted condition. 

I suggested to a young friend (not long 
since) that the roll in my hand contained 

78 



MUSINGS. 79 

pieces of a dress just finished. "Oh!" was the 
answer, " nobody wants so many; just give me 
a piece or two." 

Friends, I am not remarkable for my meek- 
ness, but there is such a thing as philosophy ; 
so concluding if she did not get them, some 
one else would, I yielded. And now, if you can 
find anything in the poor old box, excepting a 
roll of Canton flannel, one of black cloth and 
another of white, some old ribbons, and stuff 
out of which to make iron-holders, why you may 
have it (I was going to say); but, on second 
thought, think I will keep it myself, and learn 
how to make patchwork. Not the old-fashioned 
sort (I learned to do that in childhood), but the 
kind they make now, of pretty curtain calico, 
cut up into little bits, and sewed upon white 
muslin ; or pieces of silk or worsted, of every 
conceivable shape, fitted together like a Chinese 
puzzle. 

I jam actually willing, at my age, to attempt 
acquiring this accomplishment, as a penance 
for fibbing; and my worst enemy could not 



80 MUSINGS OF A 

wish me any greater punishment, as it seems 
to me one of the most disagreeable ways of 
"killing time;" yet, if any of my middle-aged 
sisters cannot "occupy their time," or you girls 
cannot find sufficient upon which to expend 
your energies, I advise you, by all means, to 
make patchwork; it is certainly more harmless 
than either gossip, dissipation, or " Women's 
Rights' Conventions," if not more useful. 

But this particular quilt which set me musing, 
was of the old-fashioned sort, and made by a 
dear little woman who never had " any time to 
occupy,'* and did not know what "ennui" 
meant, though she did read French. As I was 
lying on the lounge one day, she threw it over 
me, saying, "There, darling, I had intended 
making a large quilt; but wanting to have 
nothing in it except bits of the worsted dresses 
of our mother and sisters, and scraps of the 
vests and wrappers of our father and brothers, 
was obliged to make you an afghan instead 
of what I first intended ; for it was impossi- 
ble to preserve my original pattern, and not 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 8l 

go out of the family for material, as people do 
wear such sober colors now-a-days." 

I could truthfully assure her that I abhorred 
large patchwork quilts (preferring white spreads), 
but did like her pretty afghan — then fell to 
musing over the article itself, and the loving in- 
tent of the design, the loving wisdom in its com- 
pletion. Ah ! I thought if we would all learn 
in any work, in little matters, or in our life- 
work, if we cannot do as well as we would, do 
as well as we can. If circumstances, material, 
and time prevent us from doing great things, 
be content to do little things. If we cannot 
make a large quilt, make an afghan ; and ten to 
one the small work is more needed, better ap- 
preciated than the larger one would have been. 

Even *' our Father in heaven " loves better a 
little deed finished with loving intent, than a 
great one attempted from selfish motives. 

Improve your one talent. Better do a small 

work well than a large one badly. If your 

bright colors, your talents, wit, energy, wealth, 

beauty, health, and character are not sufficient 
F 



82 MUSINGS OF A 

to lighten a large circle, to make your influence 
widely felt, thank God for the smaller sphere 
which you can brighten, and so expend the 
brightness that (like the bright colors in my 
afghan) it make the whole work so pleasing, 
one forgets the scarcity of the material in the 
result produced. 

How Scripture upholds and encourages the 
doing of what we call little things. Is there 
any blessing pronounced upon great talents, or 
brilliant deeds ? It is " the pure in heart, the 
peace-maker, the poor in spirit, the meek, the 
merciful, the persecuted for righteousness' sake, 
and those which do hunger and thirst after 
righteousness," who are blessed. It is the 
giving " a cup of cold water " which meets the 
reward; and the widow's mite which is com- 
mended. 

Our Saviour said of Mary, "she hath done 
what she could," and does he expect more from 
us than that ? Let us all do what we can, and 
what we can best do. Let us look at ourselves 
as we look at others — look at our circumstances 
and capabilities. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 83 

We all know, well enough, when our neigh- 
bor has mistaken his calling, when his ambition 
has gone beyond his capability ; could tell what 
he was fitted for, and appoint him his life-work. 
Shall we know less about ourselves? Shall 
we not begin in middle age, at least, to scan 
our lives, to see what we are making of them ? 

Ah ! that quilt (as I lie looking at it) how 
like my life — how like everybody's life it 
seems. 

The intention, evidently, was to have half of 
every block gay and bright ; relieved and made 
brighter by the sombre hues of the other half; 
but the bright colored material giving out, only 
in the centre blocks was the original plan 
strictly preserved. The gay colors became less 
and less, till along the outer edge the blocks 
boasted only a little bright spot in the centre. 
And is not that just like life ? In our youth 
half sunshine, half shadow — the shadow only 
making the sunshine seem the brighter. 

Then there comes a day when the darkness 
deepens — when there is more of it. There is 



84 MUSINGS OF A 

just that time in all our lives, between youth and 
middle age, when, though there is still much 
sunshine left, we see only the shadow, as I do 
now those pieces of mourning goods which 
mark the deaths in our household. They set 
me thinking of the one for whom such and 
such a garment was worn. My loss comes 
back in all its power : the dead face, the coffin, 
the darkened house, the vacant place in our 
home and hearts, that one little strip of black 
brings back to me. Think you my tears will 
let me see the pieces of red merino alongside, 
or care for them ? Yet the child who wore the 
bright dress lives to bless and love me. 

And just so it is in early manhood and wo- 
manhood. We are not used to such deep 
shadows ; it seems so terrible to think that 
they deepen with our years, that our tears flow 
so freely we cannot see the brightness left us. 

But there comes a time when the one bright 
spot is made much of, and all the darkness and 
shadow is not seen. Yes, friends, on the "outer 
edge of life," how far a small attention — a little 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 85 

pleasure goes. It is said that old people, like 
children, are pleased by little things ; and so 
they are; but why? Because, alas! they have 
only little things to please them. All great 
things have passed out of their lives, except 
great shadows^ great griefs, great pains. Like 
the outer edge of my afghan, it is all grave and 
dark around, and the little spots of brightness 
here and there stand out in " bold relief," so 
bright — so very bright. 

But there are middle-aged blocks too. Look 
at those sober colors, which my little friend re- 
gretted " people would wear." Did she know, 
I wonder, that there is a time when we wear 
them inside as well as outside. A time when 

"In this world of ours 

The dreadful commonplace succeeds all change," 

and even the shadows have not the power to 
move us they once had. When we take what 
there is of sunshine in our lots quite calmly; if 
we be Christians, taking it thankfully, but know- 
ing and feeling that life is too real, too earnest, 
too short to be spent in useless repining over 



86 MUSINGS OF A 

trouble or ecstacy over pleasure. These are, or 
should be our working-days ; and the hours fly 
so fast that bright ones do not last, and sorrow- 
ful ones, we know, will soon end in that land 
where 

•' There is no broken sunshine." 

Yes, yes ; our life is all patchzvork. And so 
are we, if we do not put it in words ; we get to 
feeling it, after awhile, in middle life. Our 
deeds, our work, ourselves made up of patches 
— partly good, partly bad. 

Some one has said that " the world was di- 
vided into three classes, — the good, the bad, 
and the Beecher family." / do not believe in 
the classification ; there is more patchwork in 
this world than the ^^ Beecher family !' for what a 
strange compound human nature is, at its best. 
What queer medleys we men and women all are ! 
We are like nothing else in the world but 
patchwork. Gay streaks and grave ones ; deli- 
cate tints and vulgar coloring; pure white 
spots and those as black as night. Our smiles 
and tears lying closely together, our good deeds 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 8/ 

and bad ones side by side. One moment with 
thoughts so beautiful, so noble, so full of 
poetry that they link us to angels ; and the 
next instant becoming of "this earth earthy," 
sink almost to the level of brutes in absorbing 
care for our mortal bodies, and in the indulgence 
of sensual appetites. 

But there is a great difference in people; 
though they are all patchwork^ it is not all 
alike. Just contrast those two blocks yonder. 
The one nearest, with all the colors so artisti- 
cally, or rather so properly arranged — so ac- 
cording to rule. It will bear criticism — it 
looks nicely, and is pleasant to the eye at first 
sight, but after awhile one gets tired of it. It 
is pretty to look at, but you take it all in at a 
glance ; you see nothing new in a second look 
at it, so turn for relief to the one beyond, with 
its fitful lights and shadows — its colors all 
thrown in without regard to order. There is 
no gradual shading, but blue and red side by 
side, and a light stripe where you expected a 
dark one — startling one by its strong contrasts. 



88 MUSINGS OF A 

It will not bear criticism at all, but it will bear 
study — it interests one. The first seems to me 
like some people who are " gotten up " accord- 
ing to "Gunter." Those proper people who 
dress, walk, talk, and write by rule, who never 
transgress any law of etiquette. Miss Bremer 
says that " we are all somewhat related to 
chaos." She should have excepted proper 
people — tkejf certainly are not. To be sure, I 
cannot tell from personal experience, but one 
would think, to look at them, that there never 
was a time when they had the least doubt as to 
what was proper, either in action or speech ; 
when they had longings or cravings which 
could not or ought not to be gratified. 

There was -a time when I both envied and 
hated proper people (don't be shocked, reader). 
I do neither now; only rate them at their just 
value, as nice people of whom one soon gets 
enough, like the artistic block in my quilt. 
One knows so well just what they will do or 
say about people, or books, or under certain 
circumstances; and I would give anything, 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 89 

almost, to startle them out of their proprieties, 
or catch them in dhhabille. 

I once saw a young lady in such distress at the 
loss of a near relative, that she alarmed the house- 
hold by going into spasms; yet she managed 
to keep her new suit of mourning (veil and all) 
in perfect preservation the whole time ; and not 
even a stray lock escaped from her fashionable 
chignon. It was the greatest triumph of pro- 
priety over feeling that I ever witnessed, or ever 
want to. And yet, my friends, there is some- 
thing nice about these proper people. They 
never shock one by loud tones, even when they 
say disagreeable things ; they do it with the 
softest and gentlest accent imaginable. They 
never startle one by advancing pretty little 
heresies, as other people do : still, I like some 
of these other people better. These people 
with the fitful lights and shadows ; who come 
out bright when you are not expecting it ; who 
are full of strong contrasts, and who interest 
you because you do not take them in at a 
glance. They often transgress all human laws 
8* 



90 MUSINGS OF A 

of beauty, both in appearance and character. 
They write and say queer things, are forever 
feeling after the truth, asking strange questions, 
and propounding stranger theories. They are 
full of what a friend of mine calls "queerities." 
They are always going astray, and always re- 
penting ; and I often wonder whether He to whom 
Abraham, and David, and Peter, and Paul were 
so dear, has not chosen these people, so full of 
strong contrasts of light and shade, to do a spe- 
cial work in this world. They certainly exert 
the most power, the most influence, and for very 
good reasons. In the first place, there must be 
strength of character — originality to produce 
strong contrast. When I speak of strength, I 
mean strength of principles, strength of feeling, 
strength of purpose. And here comes in the 
question : " Can people feel without showing it 
either in action or speech?" I think not, espe- 
cially if a strong will and strength of principle 
go with it. There is much said and written 
about self-control, and repression of feeling; 
and it is all very well when it happens to be 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 9I 

bad feeling. We should control bad passions; 
we should not have bad feelings; though if we 
do show them, let us do it in speech rather than 
action. The Bible says, " Out of the abundance 
of the heart the mouth speaketh." It is a 
gospel utterance and a gospel truth, that feel- 
ing will show itself, and — I believe it. There 
may be people who, frqm the force of circum- 
stances, or from education, have learned to 
control deep feeling, so that one scarcely knows 
they have any ; yet even they (having a smoul- 
dering fire beneath) must, like a volcano, some- 
times, in the course of years, have an irruption. 
Yes, the heart will speak out; and thank God 
that it does, that the thousand other hearts 
waiting to be spoken to, do not wait in vain. 
Do not wonder, then, that I say (in the second 
place) that feeling begets feeling. Have you 
never felt it when you listened to an eloquent 
speech, or read a thrilling poem? Has not the 
strong expression of feeling in the orator or 
poet stirred the blood within you till you were 
roused to do or dare anything for the cause 



92 MUSINGS OF A 

advocated? I am not stopping to inquire 
whether the cause be right or wrong ; that has 
nothing to do with the fact; and (as stated be- 
fore), I am only musing on facts — not discussing 
either politics or religion. 

We all know that it is so patent a fact that 
those who write and speak strongly, and of 
course feel strongly, exert the greatest power, 
that men, in all time, have been afraid of the 
influence of certain books and certain people. 

Ah, my friends, believe me that it is those 
other people, with the fitful lights and shadows, 
who rouse us, who gain power over us, whether 
for good or evil; who stir the world, and 
either upset or reform it, who hold nations in 
check, and whom God uses either to advance 
his cause in this world, or to scourge his people 
for their sins. 

But what in the world ever makes people 
wear those horrid washed-out colors? Not 
good, respectable grays, or browns, or greens, 
or blues, but a mixture of all, faded out; some- 
times one predominating, sometimes another — 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 93 

a kind of " water-gruel color." I suppose they 
really are worn for economy ; they should be 
cheap. Remember to have possessed a dress 
of that sort myself, once ; and of being much 
bothered as to what color it ought to be 
trimmed with, not knowing what it was most 
like. Finally (concluding to put on something 
as unlike itself as possible) chose cherry — and 
it actually looked well. I thought then, and do 
still, that it was a wise choice, and that " water- 
gruel " people would do well to profit by the 
suggestion. 

For there are " water-gruel " people in this 
world. Those undecided, washed-out individuals, 
both in appearance and character; neither pretty, 
nor ugly, nor sharp, nor sour, nor sweet, nor 
smart, nor stupid ; who have just sufficient brains 
to entitle them to a place in society, and the 
right to be entertained; but not enough to know 
that those who do entertain them should be 
ranked among the martyrs. So, as I said, they 
should be trimmed with cherry. They should 
live with bright, decided people ; who have so 



94 MUSINGS OF A 

much character that it throws a pleasant glow 
all around, lighting up those colorless ones, 
and startling them out of their indifference. 
Then, too, (though nature cannot be entirely- 
changed,) we human beings have powers of 
assimilation and imitation, which often answer 
pretty well in the place of brains. 

Not alone is it our individual life, and the 
people in the world; but the world itself is one 
great piece of patchwork. Aye, these patches 
of light and shade in nature, how beautiful they 
are ! How the eye delights to gaze on this 
mingling of green and brown ! Look at that 
glorious old elm-tree yonder, with its rough 
bark and verdant leaves; at the green grass 
along the road-side; at the brown cottage 
covered with verdure ; and, dearer than all, the 
rustic stile, and " the old oaken bucket," with 
patches of moss upon them. 

Then there are patches of land and patches 
of water. There is the "green, green sea" and 
the blue, blue lake; the little brook and the big 
river; the calm, clear stream and the rushing 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 95 

mountain torrent; and once I saw a river as 
black as any patch in my afghan. Alas ! I fear 
it has been, since then, as bright as that scarlet 
merino yonder — bright with the blood of some 
of our best and bravest, both North and South. 
But how I love these patches of warm 
valleys, rugged mountains, and great gray 
rocks ! How I want to fall down and embrace 
them ! And as for that great block above us, 
with its fitful Hghts and shadows; well — (it did 
not startle me quite as much as it should, that 
idea in " Gates Ajar," of the child having the 
clouds to make blocks of), because, when a 
child myself, I used to lie on my back on the 
grass, and, looking up, wonder if, when I went 
to heaven, God would let me have the clouds 
to play with ; thinking, meanwhile, what pretty 
patchwork they would make. If "the truth, 
and the zvhole truth," must be told, I have not 
gotten entirely over that youthful illusion yet. 
It is at sunset that the fit oftenest takes me. I 
sit and look at those beautiful dissolving views, 
and do not want a " piece of the moon," but a 



96 MUSINGS OF A 

piece of that changing, fleeting cloud. It fades ; 
it has gone. I draw my breath, and ask my- 
self why we human beings are so afraid of 
strong contrasts, when God deals so bountifully 
in them. He puts pink and blue side by side, 
and yellow and green, and flings all the colors 
together in His "bow of promise," and His 
glorious sunsets. But man, poor man, can have 
only one idea at a time, or at best two ; and they 
must be as like each other as possible. 

I once heard a lady say that a carpet which 
contained more than two colors, she did not 
consider genteel. Of course, I did not ask how 
she would like one made of sunset clouds or 
autumn leaves, fearing the idea would be lost; 
but confess (privately) that / would, (provided 
it would wear well.) 

In a former chapter of this book, I mentioned 
sitting by the window whilst the snow beat 
against the pane, and I shiveringly drew my 
shawl around me. Since then winter has given 
place to spring, the snow has melted before the 
showers of April, flowers have budded and 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. Q/ 

blossomed, and noiv midsummer is here. The 
thermometer ranges between eighty and ninety, 
and I close the shutters to keep out the sun 
and flies. Then it grows dark, and I push them 
open just in time to see the great black cloud, 
before the flash comes to lighten it. The thun- 
der rolls; the rain falls in torrents; and the 
thirsty earth drinks it up gladly. The birds 
twitter home to their nests and their young- 
lings, the trees hold up their heads refreshed, 
and a fresh "earthy" smell comes into my 
window as I lean out to watch it all. Presently 
the clouds break away, the blue sky shines 
through, and the July sun forces me to shut out 
the scene ; the while musing — 't is patchwork 
all — these winters and summers; this snow 
and rain; this cold and heat; these shadows 
and sunshine. Ah ! all, all. These burning 
deserts and green oases ; this strong oak with 
the fragile anemone at its root; this burly beast 
of the field and delicate fowl of the air ; this 
rose amidst its thorns; and this Southern jessa- 
9 G 



98 MUSINGS OF A 

mine, so full of sweetness and beauty, forming 
thickets in which venomous reptiles hide. 

Believe me, friends, that this patchbox of na- 
ture is so full of patches, it can never be ex- 
hausted (like mine) by forays made upon it. 
No, no; this whole world of patchwork-makers 
— these preachers, orators, poets, writers of any 
sort who draw upon it for bright colors with 
which to lighten their (otherwise) "water-gruel" 
writing — can never exhaust it. What should 
we do without it? What should we do in art 
without nature? Talk of originality — man's 
originality of thought ! Is it not a reproduc- 
tion of God's great thoughts ? Does not the 
artist paint what he has seen, or heard, or felt, 
whether it be sunset clouds, or ocean, or sky, 
or beast, or portraiture of grief or joy, or love 
or hate ? And why can Shakspeare and Dick- 
ens move us to tears or laughter, as they choose; 
and Young raise us above the fear of death, 
and make us long for heaven? Because these 
men have discovered God's great truths, and 
tell them well. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 99 

Yes, yes ; with this busy world around us — 
these scenes which this sunshine falls upon, 
these shadows hide — have we not enough 
patches for both painter and poet? Can we 
take up a daily paper, even, and not meet with 
this mingling of light and dark in life ? Mar- 
riages and deaths side by side ; births in one 
column, murders in the next. On one page 
the account of a party with its lights, dress, 
and luxury at some " Fifth Avenue " palace ; 
and on another the recital of destitution, crime, 
and misery at " Five Points." 

Aye ! look, too, out of that window, and see 
the boys playing ball, and the girls jumping 
rope, without a care for the future, but to be 
"first best" in the game. Then turn your eyes 
to the other side of the street, and watch that 
boy and girl (with the basket between them)^ 
in their bare feet and ragged clothes, trudging 
along. They are no older than the players ; but 
their faces are prematurely old and careworn, 
with that cunning look which youthful battling 
with the world is sure to give — that look which 



lOO MUSINGS OF A 

the street- beggar always wears, and which 
pains us to see in children ; feeling, as we do, 
that this soiling of the child-nature is one of 
the hardest stings of poverty. 

But I cannot tell it all, friends ; the thought- 
ful among you have seen it — do see it both in 
times of peace and in times of war — this life 
PATCHWORK. You have seen the spreading of 
flags to the breeze ! have heard the shout of 
the people in victory ! and meanwhile the groans 
of the dying and the cries of the widow and 
orphan alongside. 

You have seen the hearse with the dead in it 
going up the street, the car full of living people 
going down. On the one side of the way the 
jcriminal carried to prison or the scaffold; on 
the other the hero borne in triumph to receive 
his laurels. 

Oh ! how this blending of bright and dark 
confuses me as I write. How this mixture of 
suffering and enjoying, of sinning and ap- 
plauding, tries my faith ! I throw down my 
pen, saying, I will not try to reason. I will 
not think. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. lOI 

" In thinking of these things, 

Some men have lost their minds, and others may." 

I turn for relief to the pretty colors of my 
afghan flitting before me — light and dark, 
bright and gay. Some patches ugly to look at, 
some making me sad, some washed-out; yet 
all fitting, blending — making together such a 
pretty, harmonious whole upon which to rest 
my tired eyes, that I never spread it over me 
without an inward "thank ye" to the giver. 
But to-day something more than that has it 
done for me. It has strengthened my faith. 
In looking at it, I muse : just so, perhaps, is this 
patchwork of my life, of everybody' s life, of the 
world and nature, being fitted, blended. There 
are some ugly spots in it — some sad, and dark, 
and colorless ones; yet can I not trust the 
great Maker's power and will to so finish His 
work that it shall form a beautiful and harmo- 
nious whole, to gladden our eyes when we take 
our great rest in heaven ? 
9* 





GIRLOLOGY. 

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." — ShakspeARE. 

ES, gentlemen : I repeat it, girlology. 
Don't sneer, and, gazing into the air, 
put on benevolent looks at a woman's 
mistake, and ask if I know the meaning of 
ology. I can assure you there is no mistake. 
There is a science of girls ; and, moreover, you 
know nothing about it, and shall therefore be 
forgiven your scepticism, as you could not be 
expected to believe in a science of which you 
are ignorant of the first principles. For you are 
lamentably ignorant of girlology. In the first 
place, you men who consider it your special 
mission to keep girls from doing anything 
improper, and publish it to the world when 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. IO3 

they do. In the second place, you other men, 
who, espousing their cause, are trying to give 
girls their rights whether they will have them 
or not. I assert distinctly and positively, that 
neither of you know anything about girlology. 
Why do you not stick to boys, and keep them 
straight, and give them their "rights and mis- 
sion " ? I am sure they need some one to ad- 
vocate their cause — poor little souls! You 
see, you were boys yourselves once, and know 
what they like, which is considerably more than 
you know about girls. Just try it Tell your 
little daughter that " her sphere is home " — 
her mission "to be wife and mother. That, 
if she wishes to remain womanly, to be ad- 
mired, and loved, and happy, she must not let 
her foot step out of that sphere — neither have 
opinions of her own, nor express them either 
in speaking or writing." 

Just tell her this, and see how many instances 
she will rattle off of great and good women, 
too, who did have opinions of their own, and 
who did their own thinking, and talking, and 



I04 MUSINGS OF A 

writing. Women who found their sphere some- 
where else besides home ; and whose mission 
was not to be either wife or mother, and yet 
who were womanly and happy. 

On the other hand, tell her that she is old 
enough to have some object in life — talk to 
her as you do to your boys, and propose to her 
to follow some calling. Do that, and see how 
she will pout her pretty lips, and answer, " I 
thought girls were to stay at home and be 
taken care of I don't want an object in life ; 

but I would like to go to Mrs. B 's party 

next week, if only I had a new dress to wear." 

I told you that you didn't know anything 
about girls, and — you don't. But / do, for I 
was a girl myself once ; and if you will profit 
by my experience, and not let your daughters 
pull my hair for disclosing secrets, I will tell 
you a good deal that you don't know. And, 
girls, don't you get on a " rampage," and ask 
me why I do not write about boys, and let you 
alone — that you have been written and talked 
about quite enough. I tell you that I don't 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. IO5 

know about boys — I don't understand boys, 
and could not be expected to ; for I never was 
a boy. It is a fact that they do queer things as 
well as you — but why? — there's the mischief. 

I know that the little boys — your brothers — 
tease you terribly, pull your curls, wash your 
dolls' faces, drown your kittens, and generally 
make life a burden to you. Yet they glory in 
protecting you — will not let other boys snow- 
ball you — will fight a dog, or even bull, in your 
defence — will climb the highest trees to get 
you nuts and apples ; and that you cannot do 
without these same little teasing, tormenting 
brothers of yours. I know, too, that those big 
boys — your lovers — though they like you to 
be shy and modest, and "chary of your smiles," 
yet, if you are so, will flirt with other girls, and 
make your hearts ache. That they say, " a 
girl has no business to think a man loves her 
till he tells her so," yet call girls (who act upon 
that principle) coquettes. But why ? but why ? 

Then there are those older boys — your hus- 
bands ! They love you better than any one — 



I06 MUSINGS OF A 

will almost worship you, and will choose you 
out of the whole world. They will think and 
say that you are smarter and prettier than any 
one; yet will neglect you for others, will find 
fault with you, and will permit others to do so ; 
and will let you be the recipient of their troubles, 
their temper, and their tyranny? But why, 
girls ? why ? 

There evidently is boyology, too ; for the sub- 
ject has sufficient quirks and " queerities " in it 
to entitle it to a place among the sciences. It 
was the study and bother of my childhood, 
and has been ever since — this trying to under- 
stand boys. There is no use, girls, you need 
not try — you can't do it. I had as good a 
chance as most of you, and tried hard enough, 
but now, in middle life, give it up as impossible. 
They will not tell of themselves — catch them 
at that I They will tell you all sorts of things 
about girls, which you knew before, and can give 
a reason for far better than they. But about 
boys, big or little ! Why, even that great char- 
acter painter, that great truth-teller, Shakspeare, 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. lO/ 

throws no light on the subject. They will all 
paint us some great villain — tell us he did 
thus, and so, but not why! Ah, no! I wish 
that they would, for it would so simplify mat- 
ters to know what we might expect — to un- 
derstand the symptoms, to say the least of it. 
But they don't, and, I suppose, they won't; 
therefore I come back to girls, whom I do 
understand, and love better in consequence — 
even with all " their inconsistencies y Inconsist- 
encies ! pshaw ! all human beings are incon- 
sistent ; and girls are consistent with them- 
selves at any rate. 

One great difficulty in the study of girlology 
is, that men, and women, too, whenever a girl 
does anything peculiar, eccentric, or blame- 
worthy, call it unwomanly, and think they 
have exhausted the subject; think they have 
" hit the nail on the head,' when they have only 
hit it on the side, and driven it half-way in, 
and crooked at that. 

It is, to be sure, a great compliment to 
womanhood, to girlhood, to say that all un- 



I08 MUSINGS OF A 

pleasant peculiarity, all naughtiness, is un- 
womanly; implying that woman-nature, girl- 
nature, is always good and pleasant. It is a 
great compliment, but — not a great truth. 

An old farmer once said about potatoes, 
" Taters is taters ; but you see there is a dif~ 
ference in taters." And so girls are girls; but, 
you see, there is a difference in girls. Because 
a potato is not a good potato — is queer, and 
somewhat different from that tuber generally — 
does it cease to be a potato ? No, indeed. 
Potatoes are potatoes, most decidedly ; and, 
what is more, will remain so^ do what you will 
with them. Transplant them to other lands 
and other soils ; cultivate them or leave them 
alone ; give them water, and air, and sunshine, 
or deprive them of these advantages ; plant 
them by themselves, or among corn, or 
turnips, or beets, or squashes, or onions, still 
they remain potatoes ; still they retain their 
individuality, and are the one vegetable which 
no household can do without. And girls, bless 
their hearts ! will do so too. Transplant them; 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. IO9 

try to change their nature by sending them 
into the world — even make medical students 
of them, and give them the run of the hospitals 
with the men, and still their girlhood will assert 
itself; they will go down a by-way to avoid 
the impertinent stare of the male students. I 
think it was mean in those big boys, and just 
like them ; yet I was glad of it ; glad of any- 
thing which proves that girls cannot unsex 
themselves, try as hard as they will. 

There have been, it is true, women, who, in 
some great cause, under some strong excite- 
ment, or impelled by stern necessity, have faced 
crowds, or gone into battle unflinchingly, or into 
the haunts of men, with head erect, and an eye 
before which impertinence quailed, and the 
rude jest and sneer were smothered in their 
birth. But after all, that only proved their 
individuality — the girlhood, the womanhood 
within them. Strong impulse, great need, im- 
pelled them ; and, woman-like, they stopped not 
to reason. They thought not of the propriety 
of time or place, or of themselves at all. The 



no MUSINGS OF A 

great must drove them onward, and gave them 
that true strength and dignity which such inspi- 
ration always gives. They were not unsexed ! 
They were women, fulfilling their highest, their 
holiest mission of ministering, succoring, saving. 
They were doing the work of angels ; and was it 
any wonder that, as they passed with such high, 
pure purpose written on their uplifted brows, 
rude, uncultivated men felt their power; bad 
men reverenced them ; and that all joined in 
calling a Joan d'Arc, a Florence Nightingale, 
and such like, angels indeed ? They were 
angels for the time being, ministering spirits ; 
and so there is a touch of angel nature in all 
girls ! Dickens deserves the thanks of the sex 
that he has found it out ; that he has pictured 
an Edith Dombey, kept from sin by her great 
love for Florence ; a fallen Martha redeeming 
herself that she might save "little Em'ly;" and 
a degraded Nance bearing a blow from the 
man she loved, for the sake of the child Oliver. 
Yet they are very naughty, these girls — like 
potatoes. A writer says about the latter that 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. Ill 

** There is no vegetable so prone to run back- 
wards. Just give him his way, and he goes 
headlong to ruin as fast as a potato can." 
And so it is with girls ; there is no denying it. 
They are so strong, so decisive, that they must 
do something. If you do not help them for- 
wards, they will go backwards. Ah ! yes, 
potatoes and girls are alike in that they want 
culture^ and air, and rain, and sunshine, and 
more sunshine than rain they both want. Give 
potatoes too much rain and they run to vines, 
to head — the poor tuber is small and watery, 
and often hollow-hearted. 

Give girls too much discipline, and they will 
grow to head also — the real girl, the heart, 
does not develop. They are sharp, suspicious, 
and hard. 

Give it rain, and sunshine, and air, but no 
culture, and the potato may have plenty both 
of vines and tubers ; but, after all, it is a wild 
potato, make the best of it. Just so is your 
girl without culture. She is a thorough girl, 
with wits and heart all alive, eyes everywhere ; 
but a wild specimen at the best. 



112 MUSINGS OF A 

What these girls want the most, we give 
them least of. You say they are vain ; and so 
they are : that they love dress and gayety ; and 
so they do. Why are they vain ? Poor little 
souls! they want love; they want sunshine. 
Give them plenty of it, and see if they will be 
vain ! Are not the plainest girls, the least ad- 
mired, often the vainest ? 

Why do they love dress? Partly because 
they wish to make themselves attractive, and 
know of no other way to accomplish it ; and 
partly because, from lack of culture, they have 
nothing else to do. It is the only taste culti- 
vated by either father or mother. Yes, I dare 
to say it — father! Do you not tell your little 
girl (whose vanity had never gone farther than 
a clean apron) that, if she will take her medi- 
cine, or do something equally disagreeable, you 
will get her a pretty new dress ; and she will 
look so nice in it, and shall go out to walk 
with papa; connecting the idea of the new 
dress with her walk with you till she (poor 
little innocent !) thinks papa's affections depend 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. II3 

on her dress? And when she is older, you 
carry on the same game. You like to see her 
look pretty ; you are proud of her ; and always 
take out most with you the prettiest, the best 
dressed, daughter. Ah ! she even gets the 
most kisses (generally) and the most love. 

And, mother, do you not punish your child 
sooner for soiling her dress than her book ? 
Don't you tell her, when she throws her little 
arms around your neck in an impulsive em- 
brace, not to rumple your hair, nor your collar ? 
Well, I am no friend to either rumpled collars 
or hair; but those little soft arms around one's 
neck — those little fingers fumbling in one's 
hair, can the want of them be made up to 
you and me by the most unexceptionable 
toilet ? No ! no ! Woman, if you have no little 
fingers to pull your hair down — no little arms 
to rumple your collar, borrow your neighbor's 
little girl for that purpose ; and, besides the ray 
of sunshine you will shed on her path, you can 
never calculate the blessing she will be to you. 
She will pull down with the hair the years 
10* H 



114 MUSINGS OF A 

which separate you from your girlish feelings — 
your girlhood's home. She will "keep your 
memory green " of other little fingers, which 
once loved to be so employed ; and of another 
little heart once as easily made glad ; and it 
will make you gentler towards girlish weak- 
nesses — towards girlish faults. For they have 
faults, these girls ; and yet, as I said before, 
they all have a touch of the angel- nature in 
them, which is the reason (I take it) why 
women are so much worse than men when 
they are bad. Fallen angels are certainly 
worse than fallen men ; for you know, friends, 
that the Devil is a fallen angel. Still, do not 
for an instant imagine that I agree with " Owen 
Meredith " in supposing that 

" The Devil is a woman just now." 

Yet I am willing to allow that these little 
girls are naughty, often very naughty. Some- 
times the darlings are absolutely vicious, as 
vicious as young colts ; and, what is worse, 
take real delight in being so — pride themselves 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. II5 

upon being wilful, unreasonable, and uncon- 
trollable. Said a naughty little girl to me 
once, " I am so bad, nobody can do anything 
with me. I torment everybody's life out." 
"Well, my dear," was the answer, "you are 
not alone in that, — a great many girls are the 
same. If you want to be original and peculiar, 
try to be good, for good girls are rarer than bad 
ones." 

She looked up in my face with a gleam of 
intelligence and amusement in her great gipsy 
eyes, and asked, " How did you know that? " 

Ah ! girls, don't I know ? Don't I know 
that, though you are not worse than the rest 
of us, than all who have the taint, yet, after all, 
being more guileless and honest than we grown- 
up people, you come out with the naughtiness, 
and make yourselves disagreeable? Yes, I 
know that ; and know, too, how, when being 
mistrusted, misunderstood, and unloved, you 
often do really become naughty and reckless, 
and think, if you cannot get love and admira- 
tion, you will have notoriety at any rate. God 



Il6 MUSINGS OF A 

help you that it go no farther! that you 
do not try to unsex yourselves, or succeed in 
degrading your own sex and losing your own 
souls. Oh ! dear young friends, be notorious 
if you will, if you can, but be notoriously great 
and good. 

But there is another reason, girls, why you 
are so naughty sometimes. How very good 
some of you would be if you were not so very, 
very idle. If only those heads and hearts and 
hands were well employed. Don't tell me it is 
because you have nothing to do. It is not so. 
You do not want to do anything ; you won't 
do what hes right in your path ; and you may 
as well acknowledge it. Nine-tenths of you 
are like an honest little friend of mine, who 
said that her dream of life was "to swing on 
the gate, and drink buttermilk." In other 
words, have fun generally ; have all you want, 
and do nothing useful. You get over it after 
awhile (sometimes), but not entirely ; and there 
seems always to be a propensity to do every- 
thing under the sun but the one useful thing 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 11/ 

God intended for you. You are not lazy all of 
you, nor most of you — oh no ! you are " only 
self-indulgent ! " and what is the difference in 
the result ? When you get to be large girls, to 
be " old girls," how those idle habits cling to 
you. You have not been trained; you have 
not trained yourselves to work — to work in 
the best sense of the term. That heart of 
yours has not gone out in sympathy and love 
for those in your home — those around you. 
Those heads have not worked to any purpose. 
And those hands — alas ! alas ! they have held 
to the gate whilst you swung, and that is all. 
But some of you have brains which cannot be 
idle; and all have hands, and most of you 
hearts ; for, like potatoes, it is only occasionally 
that a hollow-hearted one is found among you. 
And you get tired of swinging on a gate. 
The brains wake up. The hands itch to do 
something. The heart either fastens itself on 
the first presentable man you meet, or on your 
own dear self; and, perhaps, you go on through 
life (if not very useful) at least not unhappy. 



Il8 MUSINGS OF A 

But it is a great venture (make the most of it), 
and the poor heart often gets broken, or frozen, 
or dried up. Then how those idle brains and 
hands try to avenge it. How you sink into 
coquettes, vain and untrue — perhaps become 
married flirts, or — worse! Or else you rush 
off into a wicked and useless pursuit of " a 
mission." You who have never worked, or 
cared to work in your whole lives, crying out 
for your right to some great life-work (your 
neighbor's, perhaps), when your own lies un- 
done, untouched, even, beside you. Ah ! girls, 

" Get work, get work, 

Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get." 

You cannot be very naughty or very unhappy 
if you are usefully occupied. 

I know how hard it is to get up betimes in 
the morning, and feel there is nothing before 
you but work, monotonous work, the same old 
"tread-mill," day after day. And it comes 
harder to your yoimg natures than to ours ; 
but is it harder than an "eternal round of 
pleasure " ? 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I I9 

There is so much satisfaction in finishing 
anything ; in seeing things grow under one's 
hands; in even a nice, clean, tasteful room 
which we have helped to make so ; that, upon 
the whole, I don't pity you much ; I don't pity 
myself that little duties, little cares, make up 
the sum of most women's lives. 

But, "there's a difference in taters " and — 
girls. A good Peach-Blow is not like a good 
Mercer, nor a Sweet Potato or Early June like 
either. They are all potatoes, to be sure ; all 
from the same parent stock originally, and 
though soil, climate, and culture have made a 
great diversity in them, and increased the num- 
ber of species, still, amidst that diversity, they 
all retain certain characteristics, which unmis- 
takably show them to be potatoes. 

Ah! those Peach-Blows, how nice they are 
— how hard it is to spoil them, and how much 
more reliable they are than any other potatoes. 
In a drought, which causes a total failure in 
other crops, or in a flood which makes other 
potatoes soggy and good for nothing, they will 



120 MUSINGS OF A 

be quite mealy and eatable, and bear a pretty- 
good crop. Let a good, industrious, intelligent 
farmer plant them, and hoe and cultivate them 
as only a good farmer can or does, and they 
produce (in a good season) large quantities of 
great, magnificent tubers, fair to look upon, 
and pleasant to the taste. Or, let a poor farmer 
get hold of them and neglect them, still they 
will look nice, and are very passable potatoes. 
Then "the rot" rarely touches them; they 
are very seldom hollow-hearted; and scarcely 
any kind of cookery will spoil them, provided 
they are cooked enough — and they do need 
more cooking than any potatoes that I ever 
tried. 

And Peach-Blow girls ditto. They have 
hearts, most decidedly ; but they are not very 
soft, and need the application of a good deal 
of heat to make them so. 

How nice and pleasant these girls are — how 
yielding and gentle they seem. One would 
suppose them easily affected by either love or 
hate, censure or approval. But just try them, 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 121 

and see if they are not as hard as a Peach-Blow 
potato. Yet, like these same potatoes, they 
cannot be readily spoilt by either adversity or 
sunshine. They are pleasant through every- 
thing; pleasant to look at; pleasant to talk 
to ; pleasant to be with. Their feelings are 
not quick or keen enough to render them 
disagreeable or exacting. They have much 
gumption and tact, but their intellects are not 
of that higher order Which makes of them 
thinking and inquiring girls, who sometimes are 
unpopular. No, no — this style of girl is very 
popular, even as a little girl. *' Mamma " likes 
her because she never asks unanswerable ques- 
tions nor rumples her collar. " Papa " ap- 
proves of her because she is self-possessed in 
society and yielding at home. Teachers like 
her because she is not naughty, nor restless, 
nor inventive in tormenting. And, when she 
grows up, how the beaux like her! how they 
break their hearts for her ! — no, I did n't mean 
break, I meant bruise, for it is not often men 
break their hearts for a Peach-Blow girl. And, 



122 MUSINGS OF A 

bless you, as for her heart, the darHng ! does 
it ever get broken ? Not a bit of it. She will 
talk softly and gently to you of woman's sphere 
[and affections — will raise her eyes to your face 
with a look which acknowledges your supe- 
riority, and appeals to your protection, till you 
think yourself the one man in the world to her, 
and yet — ask her to marry you. Ten chances 
to one, she will say (with drooping eyelids) 
that " she is very sorry, but she cannot love 
you — will you not be her friend." Or, if you 
prove false and unworthy — if you play the 
jilt — you need not pity ''the poor little soul." 
She will not lose many nights of sleep — not 
she. She will look interesting, and the world 
will talk of her fortitude and resignation be- 
cause she don't break her heart — but she worit. 
No, no ; her heart is made of '* sterner stuff;" it 
will not even freeze or dry up ; and I think she 
is right — if she can do it: I quite approve of 
her. 

Yet this class of girls is not the highest 
style by any means. On certain soils, with 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I23 

certain culture, noble women are developed 
from among them; still, inasmuch as the physi- 
cal generally predominates in them, they are 
not the sort which we ever, for a moment, 
think of as angels. But I don't know; per- 
haps, if their hearts were hammered on, melted 
— cooked enough when young — they might 
be more angelic. 

And here I am met by the remark, " But we 
don't want angels, we want women." 

Well, just as you choose — I don't object; 
only I do think it would be nice to have these 
girls of ours little " ministering spirits " in our 
homes. / would like them to be something 
more than pleasant and agreeable, and nice 
looking, and nice behaved. If there happened 
to be one of these Peach-Blow girls in my 
home, I should try my best to soften her heart, 
awaken her sympathies, quicken her impulses, 
and teach her to love me well enough to give 
me a good hug and kiss regardless of appear- 
ances — regardless of consequences. 

Friends, I like Peach-Blow potatoes, and buy 



124 MUSINGS OF A 

them, generally; but it is only because I cannot 
get good Mercers. Don't tell me that the former 
are just as good as the latter: I know better. 
I ate Mercers years ago, before " the rot " be- 
came so prevalent ; when Mapes and ever>'"- 
body else said that they were the best sort of 
potatoes ; when no farmer who thought any- 
thing of his reputa ion would be without them; 
when old housekeepers felt insulted if market 
women asked them to buy anything else. 

Ah, how nice and mealy they were! How 
white — how delicate to the taste if boiled just 
right, or if roasted in ashes. 

Those were days when farmers used hoes 
instead of cultivators, and were not afraid to 
work. Of course I don't knozv, but it does seem 
to me that, if the soil were properly prepared, 
and they were put in just right, and thoroughly 
cultivated afterwards, we might have good 
Mercers now as well as formerly. I know 
that they are more easily affected by either a 
too dry or too wet season than most varieties ; 
that ^' the rot " has a particular fancy for them, 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 12$ 

at which I don't wonder; for if it be little 
insects, as some horticulturists insist, they cer- 
tainly show good taste. If man's taste only 
rivalled his indolence, he would make more 
effort to reclaim from these little epicures this 
delicious tuber for his own use. I insist upon 
it that they are worth taking extra trouble 
about; and so are girls of the Mercer type, too. 

Don't you know the sort ? To be sure you 
do ; for though they are not so plenty as Peach- 
Blows, yet we have all seen them, and are sure 
to know them. They are so distinctive, have 
so much individuality, that we can never mis- 
take them. 

As the Mercer potato has a tendency to run 
to vines, so the girl has to run to brains — to 
have opinions of her own and express them, 
and is, consequently, not popular. Then, how 
impulsive she is — how regardless of conse- 
quences ! How restless and troublesome, and 
awkward, and malapropos as a child she is — 
how hard to train, and how (like Mercer po- 
tatoes) she is not liked because she is trouble- 
II* 



126 MUSINGS OF A 

some, and is often neglected and uncultivated. 
So (poor little soul!) she trains herself by- 
asking all sorts of questions; by reading all 
sorts of books ; by forming violent friendships 
with peculiar people ; and by doing all sorts 
of odd things generally. How she shocks you 
all by her Quixotic endeavors to right her 
friends, relieve the oppressed, and reform the 
world. 

Her heart is very soft and tender; she is 
"sweet at the core;" but the world does not 
know it — even her lovers do not dream of it ; 
for she is a proud little minx, and carries a 
high head and flashing eye. She does not 
" stoop to conquer," — not she. No ! no ! — she 
is a ** born princess," and will be wooed. 

If the man who has won her love " dare " 
neglect her, and she hear aught against his 
constancy, which his own actions confirm, 
then — pity both ! How she will trample on 
her own heart and crush out its love, till 
heart and nerves — yea, almost life itself — give 
way under the pressure. But the head is just 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 12/ 

as high, the lip as smiling, and the step firmer 
than ever. Meanwhile, the lover votes her 
heartless; thinks she never loved him; and 
" they lose each other on the sea of life, drift- 
ing forever further and further apart, beyond 
reach of look, or tone, or cry of anguish." 
Then, if she be the 07ie woman in the world to 
him, she is avenged as she never meant or 
wished to be — for men have been known to 
break their hearts, or have their lives blighted, 
out of love for such girls. 

I suppose that I ought to feel sorry for hinty 
and condemn her : she had no business to be so 
proud ; that (according to the accepted mean- 
ing of the term) it would be more womanly to 
do so. But " doctors differ; " / think it would 
be more womanly not to do so, inasmuch as I am 
a woman myself, and would naturally lean to 
the girl-side of the question, especially when I 
consider how easily Mercer girls are spoilt. 
Ah ! there is so much of the angel in those 
great, high-strung, unselfish, loving natures, that 
I tremble for what they may become through 



128 MUSINGS OF A 

doubt, neglect, or wrong. That if planted on 
a cold, clay soil, with defective culture, and they 
have too much rain and too little sunshine, ** the 
rot" will overtake them ; and then! Perhaps 
they are only touched, and still are white and 
pure at heart; but the mealiness, the sweetness, 
is gone, and they become outwardly hard, sharp, 
and indifferent. 

But if the disease be bad, and the whole 
heart turn black — what then ? Why, then, let 
us speak it softly, mournfully, as we whisper 
of the death of loved ones, yea, as we tell of 
the wreck of some noble ship, let us tell of this 
greater human wreck, this woman-heart in ruins. 
This woman becomes desperate, cruel, almost 
fiendish. I verily believe that our worst wo- 
men come from this class — and so do our best. 
They are the strongest natures, and capable of 
the greatest extremes. They rarely, if ever, 
lose their virtue — they are too proud and un- 
yielding for that; but they become Rosa 
Dartles, and Charlotte Cordays, and Helen 
McGregors. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I29 

Like the best-blooded horses, they have the 
most mettle, and (even as children) show it. 
They are the girls who have most temper ; and 
it is naughty, very naughty, I would not en- 
courage them in it. But " deal gently" with 
them, for with such girls ''I, at least, know no 
way of fighting with what is wrong, like help- 
ing everything good and true to grow." 

How love and trust, good air, good soil, and 
right culture develop them ! The warm, unsel- 
fish impulses become right principles ; the reck- 
lessness, moral courage; the restlessness, ener- 
gy in a good cause ; the pride, self-respect ; and 
the strong will. Christian firmness and endurance. 

They are " of the stuff from which martyrs 
are made." Not those alone spoken of "in 
history and in song," but household martyrs, 
too. They who are stretched on the rack for 
years instead of days; who bear more than 
one burning; who themselves guillotine their 
most cherished tastes, their dearest hopes,, for 
love or duty's sake, yet never ask nor get the 
world's applause or pity. And they need it 
I 



130 MUSINGS OF A 

not. They are self-sustained, because God-sus- 
tained ; and never lean but on Omnipotence. 

Reader, have you never felt that there were 
some things, and some people, which you would 
have liked a great deal better, if the reality had 
not fallen short of your expectations ? If it had 
not been for the humiliating feeling that you were 
cheated — imposed upon? If so, you felt just 
as I did the other day, when, buying (as I 
thought) Mercer potatoes, I got Blue-Noses 
instead, and never found out my mistake till 
they came to be peeled. 

Angry don't begin to express my feelings. 
I was beside myself — raving. Declared that I 
had been cheated, and that the man should 
take them back. 

In vain did my cook say that '* they were 
pretty good potatoes." 

My expectations were of good, old-fashioned, 
white, mealy Mercers; and I would not be satis- 
fied with anything less. One member of the 
family suggested that, having bought the pota- 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I3I 

toes myself, I ought to have known what I was 
buying-. I turned upon him fiercely. " How 
should I, a woman, know the difference be- 
tween a Mercer and a Blue-Nose with the 
skins on ? Don't they look just alike till they 
are peeled? But they are not alike. The latter 
is only an imitation of the former, and I hate all 
imitations — all pretensions." As I stopped to 
take breath, he went on coolly : " No, they are 
not alike, not even with the skins on. A Mercer 
(if good) is the same shade all over; but a Blue- 
Nose is darker in spots, generally at one end, 
and is very inferior in taste to the former ; yet, 
being easier of cultivation than Mercers (as they 
are not so readily affected by either wet or dry 
weather, or the rot), farmers like them better." 
Of course, reader, they like them better be- 
cause they are less trouble, and so give us a 
poor imitation instead of the genuine article, 
and have the audacity to call them Blue Mercers. 
I, for one, don't mean to stand it ! T'is a foul 
slander on the rea/ Mercer, and a great imposi- 
tion on us. 



132 MUSINGS OF A 

But, as bad as the potato Imitation is, the girl 
imitation is worse ; when it comes to that, I 
have no words for my indignation. 

I like everything in the shape of a girl — it 
is my greatest weakness. The little chits them- 
selves know it, and impose on me ; and all my 
friends take advantage of it. They are con- 
stantly coming to persuade me to engage in 
some " woman's mission," or " girl's industrial 
school," or to subscribe to some female orphan 
or blind, or something or another, asylum. 
They know they are hitting my weak point — 
my hobby. And yet, friends, there is a girl — 
this imitation girl — who excites my direst wrath, 
and it is because she is not genuine, not honest. 
It is such a mean, cowardly fault, this attempt- 
ing, this pretending to be something different 
from what one is — this hoisting of false colors. 

Run up your own flag, girls, even if it be 
black, and let us know where you stand. But 
it is not black ; oh ! no ; only a little streaked. 

You have some brains, occasionally a good 
deal of talent, and if you would only be satis- 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I33 

fied with that, and not pretend to so much sen- 
timent, and impulse, and intellect, I should like 
you better. You are very nice girls, and capa- 
ble (under culture and pressure) of achieving 
considerable. But do not put on absent-minded 
airs, and be slovenly in your dress, and behave 
as if it were impossible for you to bring your 
minds down to sewing and household duties. 
It is of no use. Those of us who understand 
as much about girls, as my friend did about 
potatoes, know (even before you are peeled) 
that you are not Mercers. If you were, you 
would be ashamed of your natural failings — 
would blush at them, instead of talking about 
them ; would make the most desperate efforts 
to dress like other people; and be more proud 
of making a good loaf of bread, or a really 
pretty apron than — of writing a book. 

Then, too, though Mercer girls care little for 
dress, I doubt their being more slovenly than 
other people; or that they look down with con- 
tempt on household affairs. I deny both facts. 



134 MUSINGS OF A 

Also that they are absent-minded, for, like 
Mercer potatoes, they are all eyes, and know 
and see everything that is going on. 

You court observation, too, either in joy or 
sorrow; and if you were real Mercers, you 
would feel too keenly to have your sores 
touched by everybody. You would cry out, 

" Being observed, 

When observation is not sympathy, 
Is just being tortured." 

Even in love or marriage, you cannot be 
honest. You do love sometimes ; for you have 
hearts, though they are so streaked through 
with worldly wisdom and policy that they are 
not always either as tender or white as we 
would have them. So, often when love is your 
only motive, you talk (very piously) about the 
leadings of Providence, and how your sphere 
and life are marked out for you so plainly that 
you dare not disobey, etc., etc. 

One would think, to hear you, that you had 
been the subject of a direct revelation in the 
matter. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I35 

I am sure that I have no particular objection 
to your being conscientious on the subject of 
love and marriage, as well as any other. In- 
deed (on the contrary) I would say trample 
either love or worldly advantage under foot, 
sooner than marry a man whose moral or re- 
ligious character is what you cannot approve ; 
sooner than take so important a step in your 
life, and not be able to pray over it. But don't 
pretend. When you do marry for love, say so, 
and be proud of it (I certainly think it is noth- 
ing to be ashamed of); and if you don't, the 
least said about it the better. 

You see, girls, we understand you. There is 
no use of trying to blind us with your affecta- 
tions. Be as refined as you choose. Be cul- 
tivated. Christian gentlewomen, but — dmi't 
act ! Don't pretend to be geniuses, or saints, 
with nerves so delicate that a small word or a 
common word grates on your ear, and that you 
cannot bear the society of uncultivated people, 
though all the time trying to impose upon us 
a heart so large and warm that even a Mrs. 



136 MUSINGS OF A 

Jejleby would die of envy beholding your 
superior philanthropy. 

Oh! we would like you so well, if you would 
only be natural. If you only had the courage 
to be yourselves — nice, smart, presentable girls, 
who cared how you looked; who thought more 
of the IdiSt /as/iw7t than the last poej/i; and who, 
even in affliction, never forgot to order a most 
becoming bonnet. 

But now what can we do ? You are so re- 
fined we cannot refine you; so smart that it is 
useless to cultivate you; and so good that you 
cannot be any '' gooder!' ^^ CJiacun a son goitt ;'' 
but to my notion, you would be a little improved 
by cultivating your conscience and self-respect, 
that you might care more 'Uo be'' than ''to seem 
to be!' 

I ate some potatoes at a friend's table early 
in June, which were so large, and fine, and 
mealy, that I was surprised to learn they were 
new potatoes. Upon my wondering that every- 
body did not grow them in preference to other 
kinds, was told that they were Early Jimes, and 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I37 

matured earlier than other varieties, but were 
never any better than I saw them then. " In- 
deed/' continued my host, "you would not like 
them in October at all. They come to perfec- 
tion too soon to be good for anything in 
autumn and winter." 

Ah ! girls, girls ! I wonder how many of you 
are Early Junes? Judging from the number 
which pass my window every day, the species 
must be alarmingly on the increase. You are 
carefully and finely dressed, and are stylish and 
graceful, without crudeness or awkward girlish 
ways ; and I scarcely wonder that your mothers 
are proud of you. I like you myself, but I don^t 
approve of you. What business have you to 
ripen so soon ? To be women at fifteen ? To 
have lovers before you have brains ; and to be 
able to get up an "unexceptionable toilet" 
before you have either ? At least, you consider 
it unexceptionable, but / don't; and neither 
would you, if you had taken time to develop 
brains. No, no ; you would have thought twice 
before you wore a man's hat and boots, put a 
12* 



138 MUSINGS OF A 

camel's hump on your back, and walked the 
streets in the dress of a harlequin. 

But you have not any brains, poor child ! 
and, what is worse, never will have, I am afraid. 
There is as much of you as there will ever be ; 
for you matured so quickly that the intellect 
was entirely overlooked. 

You are lively, and pleasant, and pretty, and 
stylish, and it does very well while youth lasts ; 
but in October, girls, in autimm and zvinter ! 
I am afraid we shall not like you any better 
then than we like the potatoes. 

And what will you do with yourselves then ? 
You have never thought of anything but beaux 
and dress ; never dojie anything but dress and 
flirt ; and never had any other mission but to 
make yourselves pretty by dress. What will 
you do in autumn — in mnddle age? Dress? 
Well, some of you will; some of you do, I 
know; but you look like old fools; and — ex- 
cuse me — you ai^e what you look like; and I 
am not the only person who thinks so. 

You had hearts when you started, and that 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I39 

was one reason we liked you so well; but feed- 
ing only on self, they are starved out, and either 
dry up or die a natural death. Even if you get 
married, you are selfish mothers, selfish wives. 
You hunger for the old excitement, the old ad- 
miration. If you happen to be too pure to be 
married flirts, you are {iiot often) too good (be 
you rich) to endeavor to break your neighbor's 
heart with envy at your superior appointments 
in house, dress, and equipage. If you be poor, 
how you worry your husband into expenditure 
beyond his means, that you may rival your 
richer neighbors and friends. 

Oh! little girls! little girls! what will save 
you from becoming such women as I see all 
around me? Cannot we keep you little girls 
till your brains develop, and your hearts grow? 
I should try — I should try. I would make 
your home, your girlhood so happy, that you 
would be sorry to ''grow up." I would get 
you dolls to dress, instead of yourselves, and 
help you dress them. Would get you story- 
books and games; would romp and laugh with 



140 MUSINGS OF A 

you, and make you sew and study with me. 
Should not scold you if you happened to be 
caught in deshabille by company, but teach you 
to be so clean and neat that it would not often 
happen. 

And what nice times we should have when 
we went out walking together. We should be 
so occupied with looking at pretty pictures, and 
statuary, and flowers, and vases, in the shop- 
windows, and talking about them, that we 
should not think of other people's dress, nor of 
our own. 

And at times I would tell you of some noble 
women — good women whom I had known, 
single women, too — who had lived useful, happy 
lives. I would read to you of others who had 
lived great lives, and would tell you what they 
had thought, written, and accomplished; and 
then you would not care so much to dress for 
beaux, and marry the first fool or scamp who 
asked you, because you were afraid of being 
called ''old girls;" for you would know that 
some of the greatest, best women of every age, 
in all times, have been *' old girls'* 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I4I 

Szveet potatoes^ are you getting tired of wait- 
ing ? Don't you know that zve have to wait a 
great while for you in the fall of the year? 
That you are longer maturing than any other 
kind, and will not mature at all, if the soil is 
not just to your liking ? 

How you do like warmth and dryness ! and 
how scrubby and good-for-nothing you are 
without. My mouth waters now at the thought 
of how nice you used to be, grovv^n in your own 
Carolinas, on your native soil, in your own 
sunny clime. How (running wild at your own 
sweet will) with very little culture you turned 
out ** all right," and were sweet, and mealy, and 
luscious. How all through the winter in that 
Southern land (covered by that warm, dry 
sand) you held your own, and never wilted, or 
rotted, or lost your sweetness. Still, even then, 
I remember longing for a good Irish potato, 
and wondering at dinner-time whether people 
ever died of too much sweetness. Ah ! tliese 
potatoes certainly are injured by it. If they do 
not rot outright, they become sticky and dis- 



142 MUSINGS OF A 

agreeable in consequence, when we attempt to 
keep them all winter at the North. I for one 
am tempted to wish they had less sugar and 
more starch, to give them more strength, that 
they might stand our climate better. 

Just give them warm soil (these Sweet pota- 
toes), and they will mature at the North as 
readily as in their own climate. They do not 
care, not they, so long as they get plenty of 
sugar and sunshine, whether it be their native 
soil or not. They will stretch out those ten- 
drils of theirs all over creation, after sweetness 
and warmth. They will run into all the neigh- 
boring patches, and even cross wide paths in 
the search. But they don't always find what 
they want, and how can they? Why don't 
they stay at home? They may run around 
(with impunity) in the soil and climate to which 
they are indigenous, but it will not do here. 
We must clip off their runners, and make them 
stay where they were planted, or they will never 
turn out well. 

Girls of the Sweet-potato type, how much 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I43 

better ofif you are when you stay where you 
were planted. But you dotit, and I hear you 
say you worHt. 

You are very sweet — you have more sugar 
than starch ; more sweetness than strength ; 
more vanity than pride. You long for admira- 
tion, for love, and throw out those tendrils of 
yours all over creation after it. If you do not 
get what you want at home, in your own social 
circle, you go into your neighbor's patches to 
find it. You attempt all sorts of missions, all 
sorts of work ; you even cross the wide path 
which separates modest maidens from fast 
young women, and then — you do not turn out 
well. 

It does seem strange that the very sweetest 
women are the ones least satisfied with remain- 
ing as God made them — that, as a class, they 
are the ones who try hardest to unsex them- 
selves. It can only be explained from the fact 
that they have not enough self-respect to glory 
in their girlhood — their womanhood. Then, too, 
they are not strong; for sugar <3;/<?;2^ does not give 



144 MUSINGS OF A 

strength, however pleasant it may be. They 
cannot endure the storms, the frosts of hfe. 
They sink under the discipline and suffering, 
of which most women have their share. They 
doiit like it. They do not get irritable ; they 
are not disagreeable, even. They are bright 
and sweet ; but they wish that they were boys 
— were men, so as to get rid of little daily 
cares and vexations ; little pains and aches of 
both body and mind, and those discomforts, 
generally, which belong to women as much as 
her smooth skin, small hands and feet, and 
delicate organization. They do not always 
throw off all restraint, and (braving public 
opinion) cross over into man's field ; but they 
go as far as they can — as they dare. They 
shirk home-duties, and are interested in every- 
thing outside which will give them notoriety, or 
take them away from domestic disagreeable- 
ness. 

Then how long these girls are maturing. 
They are children a great while, because they 
love to lean, to be taken care of and do noth- 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I45 

ing. They are slow learning woman's dignity, 
patience, and unselfishness. When they do 
reach maturity, when they get all the sunshine 
and sugar they want, how luscious they are — 
how very, very sweet! How we all love them ! 
We cannot help it ; but we do not exactly ad- 
mire them. We are sure they will kiss us, and 
love us, and cling around us while all goes 
smoothly ; but they cannot bear adversity. If 
they happen to love us so well, with those soft 
hearts of theirs, that our sorrows become their 
sorrows, why then, poor darlings ! how they 
will wilt and droop, and sometimes die, when 
we are driven by the storms of life into ship- 
wreck of fame or fortune. 

Oh ! I pity these little girls — these sweet 
women ! I want to pet them always — to put 
my arms around them, and ward off everything 
unpleasant ; to shield them from sin, and suf- 
fering, and sorrow. But I can't. They must 
bear their own burdens like the rest of us; and 
so I would clip their tendrils. I would plant 
and keep them in their own soil, where I would 
13 K 



146 MUSINGS OF A 

put a little more starch, even if they were not 
quite so sweet. I would not let them lean on 
me. I would throw them off, that they might 
be forced to lean on the Strongest Arm, and so 
gain strength. It would be very hard to do so, 
for it is pleasant to have them cling ; but, ah ! 
me, they should cling to " the Rock,'' and not to 
a poor tree, which storms may, and time musty 
destroy. 

In the spring, when I want to treat my friends, 
I give them Bermuda potatoes. People who 
never eat any other sort like them, and imagine 
(have what else you choose) that you have given 
them a grand dinner. Whether they have beef 
or mutton, veal or lamb, it makes no difference, 
so they get Bermudas. Perhaps it is because 
they are so rare, or because they breathe to us 
of those sunny climes we so long for in our 
fitful Northern springs. Possibly we love them 
because to us they herald summer; it has 
already reached that far-off land, and these 
potatoes were matured in its sunshine. But I 
don't care what the reason is, I love them, and 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I47 

SO do you. We wish they would grow here ; 
but they won't — at least (when they do) they 
are something else, and not delicious, mealy 
Bermudas. 

I know a style of girls so like them — so rare 
she is, so good, so lovable, and fond of home, 
and only there do you find out her full value. 
Let sickness and trouble come ; let servants be 
unruly or leave suddenly, and everything be 
*'at sixes and sevens ; " let the whole household 
machinery be deranged, and everybody in de- 
spair ; then how valuable is my Bermuda girl ! 
How quickly everything adjusts itself at her 
touch ! We don't mind it so much now. We do 
not care whether the storm be big or little, for 
there is a wise head, a ready hand, and a brave 
and loving heart to pilot us through. She 
seems, too, to breathe of some far-off sunny 
land where there are no storms; and she 
brings it near — so near that the air seems full 
of the warmth and sweetness of that "blest 
shore," 'neath whose sunshine she has ripened. 
What care we for the storms ? What matters 



148 MUSINGS OF A 

it? "The winter of our discontent" has passed 
— summer is at hand. 

This girl is seldom what is called fascinating, 
rarely even pretty ; but how pleasing she is, how 
trustworthy, how calm and brave ! She may 
dress our sores (both physical and mental); her 
touch is so gentle, she will not hurt us. 

"Has she any faults?" 

If being too gentle, too lenient, be a fault — 
yes. She can scarcely condemn even sin ; 
sometimes (I am afraid) sacrificing her sense 
of right to love for the sinner. 

As a little girl, how she loves her pussies! 
How she cries because "mamma" will not let 
them all sleep in the house at night. If little 
brother has been naughty, and got a whipping, 
she gives him all her candies and her favorite 
plaything to console him. She gives all her 
pennies, and even her own little shoes, to a 
poor little beggar who has neither. She is not 
often naughty herself, yet thinks it very cruel 
to punish naughty children and naughty people. 
When she grows older, she has a theory that 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I49 

everybody can be won by love. She tries it, 
and succeeds so often that she almost converts 
us. Still, it is well she is not a sovereign, for 
she might upset society by her superabundance 
of Mercy and lack of Justice. But she stays at 
home so much, and, like the potato, if planted 
anywhere else, is not a Bermuda at all, that I 
think now she does not a great deal of harm. 
Sometimes she gets harm, by trusting too much 
in frail, human nature ; especially if she happen 
to love is this the case. How confiding she is ! 
How she trusts everything to her affection! 
Thinks that a man may be won from evil 
courses, from even infidelity itself, by love. 
Oh, darling! if Christ's love has failed to win 
him, can yours ? Can yours ? If you be mar- 
ried, trust and love, and hope as much as you 
can ; but, \inot, why then "a word to the wise " 
is sufficient; you are wise about other things, be 
so in this. But you are so rare, so unselfish, that 
we will delight in you despite this weakness. 
We will be very fond of you, and thank God 
13* 



150 MUSINGS OF A 

for you, and wish that every home were blessed 
with such " an angel in the household." 

Reader, I could multiply the different styles 
of girls, but they would only (like different 
sorts of potatoes) be some one of the kinds I 
have already mentioned, varied by soil or cul- 
ture, or, perhaps, a cross of two or three 
varieties. I have given enough instances to 
show " there 's a difference in taters " and — 
girls. I trust, too, that I have convinced you 
there is a science of girls — that there is a 
girlology; and that it is worth your study, 
worth the study of the greatest intellect in the 
land, either man's or woman's. 

He is a poor farmer, who, having potatoes in 
his field, knows not what sort they are, what 
soil and culture they need, or (worse still) 
knows nothing 2}ooyx\. potatoes at all. 

We most of us men and women have girls 
in our field. Shall we be poor husbandmen, 
and not know what sort they are? What soil 
and culture they need? Not know anything 
about girls at all ? 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 151 

We study all sorts of things. We read all 
sorts of things, and try to find out even that 
"beyond our ken." Shall we not try to read 
our girls' hearts, and find out what they need 
to mature them rightly, to develop them into 
good, refined, brave, Christian gentlewomen. 

And, men ! do not yon judge us, unless you 
know, at least, as much about us as you do 
about your potatoes ; unless you know the soil 
and culture we have had, and even then 

" Who knows the past ? and who can judge us right ? " 

But, little girls, don't you get impatient with 
us older people. Remember we are mortal ! 
Do not exclaim, as you finish this chapter, 

"What then? 
Who cares for a gnat ? — or girl ? " 

I tell you that we do care for you — all of us. 

Don't your father care for you when he works 
all day (sometimes all night), that he may give 
you luxuries and pleasures ? When he denies 
himself indulgences, and even necessities, that 



I$2 MUSINGS OF A 

he may bring home some nice bonbons^ or 
the last novel, or a new dress for his " little 
daughter " ? 

And your mother, don't she care for you ? 
Don't she care for your pleasure, your looks, 
your health, your manners, till she vexes you 
by too much care for you — too much anxiety 
for your welfare ? Aye, whether or not it be 
the best thing for you, still give her credit for 
unselfishness, for love, at any rate. And when 
she crosses and annoys you, try and remember 

" How that small fretting fretfulness 
Was but love's over-anxiousness, 
Which had not been had love been less." 

Do not your brothers care for you, when 
they can have no fun without you? When 
they are proud of their smart and pretty sisters, 
and are ready to whip any boy who denies the 
fact ? Yes, even when they abuse your care- 
fully got up toilet, and bring tears of vexation 
to your eyes by their ridicule ? I assert that 
even then they care for you — for your appear- 
ance. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I53 

And the beaux ! they care for you, too. Do 
you (for one instant) suppose that they sport 
those " immaculate kids," those " killing " neck- 
ties, and dandy canes for each other ? Or that 
they go to balls and parties to meet men? Not 
a bit of it. It is you they care for, girls. So 
much do they care for your opinion that they 
are absolutely afraid of you ; and would rather 
face an enemy in battle, than a girl's laugh or 
frown. If you put your standard high, how 
they try to live up to it ; and — don't they care 
for you ? 

I saw, the other day, a gentleman, hurrying 
home through the snow and wet, stop his quick 
step as a little girl fell down in the partly frozen 
gutter. He looked cold and tired himself, but 
he picked her up, brushed off her little dress 
and shoes with his hand, and soothed her 
kindly, telling her to run home quickly, that 
she might not take cold, and waiting to see 
that she did so. 

I saw in the cars, too, — indeed, I see it often, 
— young men and gray-haired men, men in the 



154 MUSINGS OF A 

garb of gentlemen, and men dressed as work- 
men, as day-laborers, rise and give you girls 
seats ; and yet you say " no one cares for you." 

Yes, yes; you little witches! we do care for 
you. We love your nonsense and brightness 
in our homes. We care to have you in the 
street, and in the cars — anywhere on our path, 
with your laughter and frolicking, and candy- 
eating, and your cunning little airs. We would 
sooner put up with your pouting, and naughty 
tempers, even, than not to have you at all. Oh, 
girls ! we care for you ! we care for you ! 

But we are not always clear-sighted, and 
often misjudge you; or are weakly loving, and 
spoil you. We are ambitious for you, and for- 
get that you have hearts, or are self-indulgent, 
and neglect you. 

So, with all our caring, life seems very hard, 
the world very dark to you, sometimes, darlings! 
And (if you would be good and happy) you 
dare not look earthward; those eyes of yours 
must be turned "skyward, sunward," upward 
towards One who is too wise to misjudge, too 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 



155 



good to err, and " He careth for you," and 
makes little duties, little cares, little trials, little 
sufferings, little wrongs seem, oh ! so little in 
the light of the great joy ^ the great hereafter to 
which you are looking. 






HOBBY-HORSES. 

" These are truths unquestionable. If they make no un- 
pression, it is because they are too vulgar and notorious." 

Junius Letters. 

N these days of progress, when every- 
thing is advancing at a velocipede rate, 
dare I speak of hobby-hoi'ses ? It is 
somewhat venturesome in an age when toy- 
merchants put them out of sight, and little 
boys blush to acknowledge that they own one 
(lest they should be thought slow), to put down 
in black and white one's preference for hobby- 
horses over velocipedes. Still, you " grown- 
up " people cannot move me from my position 
by talking about " advance and progress," nor 
you boys by laughing at my " old fogyism." 

Advance and progress are both very well when 
you know what you are advancing to, and in 

156 



MUSINGS. 157 

what direction you are progressing. What is 
the use of a movement which accomplishes 
nothing — which does not pretend to accom- 
plish anything — whose only aim is going? Yes, 
boys, I am an '' old fogy." I like safe things, 
and dislike unsafe and aimless ones. 

Then, now that velocipedes are " the rage," 
when little boys and great boys run them on 
the side-walks of our cities without fear of 
molestation, I should like to know what 
guarantee we foot-passengers have for life and 
limb ? 

It is not always bad manners in our boys 
either — they cannot often help running you 
down. How can they suddenly stop one of 
those vehicles under full headway? How can 
they tell where they will pull up ? " Some- 
where ! " a boy said to me the other day, when, 
adroitly getting out of his way, I inquired where 
he was going. 

Yes, it is " somewhere!' or rather nowhere ^ that 
these boys go on their velocipedes, and my 
only wonder is, that they don't oftener break 
14 



158 MUSINGS OF A 

their own necks, and those of other people 
besides. They go as far as they can (without 
running off a crossing, or against a brick wall, 
or people, or dogs, or hand- carts, or other 
velocipedes), and call it fun ; and cry, '' See 
how I go ! " And their mammas think it such 
" fine exercise in the open air " for them, talk- 
ing in a would-be indifferent tone about the 
French prince making it his favorite pastime. 
Of course that never influenced them in choos- 
ing it for their sons ; oh ! no ; " but it is such a 
healthy amusement, and keeps the little fellows 
so out of the way." Yes, it does keep them 
out of the way, for our city yards are not the 
'• Royal Gardens," nor our Biddies the intelli- 
gent and careful attendants of the French 
prince.* And so our boys must go to the 
street for this very healthy exercise. 



*This article was written before the " Franco-Prussian " war 
had caused the poor little prince to pull up " somewhere^ 
That velocipedes are not as popular as they were a year ago, 
is the best reason I can give for leaving unaltered what I have 
written ; as preachers say, "it proves my position." — Ailenroc. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I59 

I do not see the exercise — do not see how 
it develops either bone or muscle, or promotes 
health — still, as this is a mooted point, I shall 
let it alone, only asking if the rocking-horse 
can be ridden often without developing the 
muscles, straightening the spine, and sending 
the blood coursing through the cheeks of the 
palest ? Then, too, are we to think more of 
the health of the body than of the mind — of 
the heart ? Alas ! when our children are out 
of the way of their mothers, they are very apt 
to be in the way of somebody, or something, 
which will not prove good for their soul's 
health. American mothers ! has it come to 
this — that you approve of a toy because it 
takes your boys out of your way ? The time 
may come when you will try to keep them in 
the way and cannot. One would think that 
you would like to now, if not for their sakes, 
for your own. They make no more noise than 
that Italian opera troupe you heard the other 
night. They are a prettier sight than any pic- 
ture at " the Academy," etc., and more difficult 



l60 MUSINGS OF A 

to read, better worth studying than any book 
your superior intellect has ever mastered. 

Pull down out of the garret the old hobby- 
horse, and let the little ones rock ; and rock, 
even if they do wear out your carpets and 
— nerves. Things can't last forever — carpets 
must wear out; and, after all, they are not a 
necessity — one can do without them. As to 
nerves — it will be a bigger strain on your 
nerves some day, when your boys are far out of 
your way ; out of the way of all that you love 
and venerate ; and, in a moral velocipede, 
riding — where? somewhere — you and I shud- 
der to think where. It is so pleasant to be 
borne along without effort! Will they pull up 
in time, before they reach the crossing ; before 
they dash their brains out against yonder wall? 
I fear 7iot, and you fear not: what about your 
nerves now? 

Oh ! that mother-love which likes to have 
the little people about ! how beautiful it is ! 
how rare it is in this age of progress ! 

Women are getting ashamed of their old- 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. l6l 

fashioned hobbies — their children, their homes ; 
and I do not like their new-fashioned veloci- 
pedes half as well. If they only amounted to 
anything. If I only knew — if they only knew 
themselves where they were going, and what 
they wanted — but they don't. It seems as 
though all these velocipede people cared about 
was, to have a right to do something — a right 
to go somezvhere. They are very trying people 
to live with, for one never knows where to find 
them. 

You think they are alongside of you, when 
lo ! they are across the street. You turn to 
speak to them, and they have turned the cor- 
ner, and are out of sight. 

But, as trying as it is to live with them, it is 
more so to love them ; to twine our hearts about 
them ; to lavish all our best affections on them ; 
and to find — no, we don't find them at all, or, 
if we do, cannot keep them. One's hair grows 
gray, planning and thinking how to keep track 
of them. We live in constant dread of their 
running us down, or running away from us, or 
14* L 



l62 MUSINGS OF A 

(getting under full headway) of their failing to 
pull up at the right time, and — somebody gets 
hurt. 

Yes, friends, it is safer to ride a hobby, and, 
I should think, pleasanter. I never rode on a 
velocipede, but have on a hobby-horse (of 
course in a nice, lady-like manner). Why not, 
as well as on a real horse ? And, if I am vain 
of any personal accomplishment, it is of my 
seat on a horse: I learned how to do it on the 
old white rocking-horse, which stood in our 
hall in my childhood. 

What a real, live horse he was to us all ! 
How we combed his mane, and caressed him, 
and honored him with the name of " Old Hick- 
ory!" What rides we took on him, going just 
where we chose (in imagination), and we always 
knew where we were going to — could always 
tell. It was not "somewhere," but to London 
or Paris, or where the oranges grew, and the 
roses blossomed all the year round. Some- 
times we joined Gulliver in his travels, or fol- 
lowed Robinson Crusoe to his island home. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 163 

Nothing stopped us — neither distance, nor 
wind, nor wave, even armed soldiery were no 
barrier, — 

" But the whole boundless universe was ours." 

Was it of no use, think you? Did it amount 
to nothing ? Have you never, when tired and 
worn by care, and trouble, and disappointment, 
for a time forgotten everything, been rested by 
some book which carried you to scenes away 
from your trouble ! Or have you never had 
real suffering, real grief, allayed by a trip to 
some pleasant land ? You are not strong 
enough to forget yourself in loving, active care 
for others. You are not good enough to sit 
quietly at home and face your trouble — to face 
yourself in the trouble. You long to think of 
something else, of somebody else ; and loving 
friends take pity on you, and carry you to 
brighter scenes and new people, and you lose 
yourself — forget that you were never to be 
happy any more. 

And shall not the children's hobby-horses 
do as much for them ? 



164 MUSINGS OF A 

That active little boy of yours — full of life, 
and fun, and adventure — how he torments you 
sometimes. He wants to do something ; he 
wants to see and find out something new. He 
goes on a voyage of discovery into your work- 
basket, and unwinds all your spools, takes your 
needles out of their place, and snaps your 
thimble-case till he breaks the hinge. Or he 
teases his little sister, or pinches the baby's ears 
(to see the effect), and makes it cry. In short, 
is in everybody's way, and his own, too. 

Now get him on his hobby-horse, and sug- 
gest to him to hunt buffaloes on the Western 
prairies, or to chase Indians in the Western ter- 
ritories, and see how he will ride off his rest- 
lessness. How fast he will go \ how his hair 
will fly, and his cheeks glow ! He is the hunter, 
the soldier, for the time being; he is far away 
— his fleet horse has carried him amid new 
scenes; made him happier, and left fou and 
others in peace. 

And that little fellow full of poetry, with the 
artist's soul, the sensitive poet's nature, who 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 165 

feels wrong keenly, and longs to avenge it. 
Somebody has rubbed out the picture he had 
drawn on his slate, or torn his copy of " Swiss 
Family Robinson," or " the boys " have made 
fun of his delicate physique and tastes, and his 
whole nature is grieved, irritated. His eye is 
full of unshed tears ; his lip quivers ; and he sits 
disconsolately, with no care for his usual pas- 
times. You reason with him ; you tell him 
that he can draw another picture, and have 
another book, and that he must not care what 
the boys say as long as he does right. 

But that picture was part of himself — that 
particular book he had associations with ; and, 
besides, it was well thumbed, and he could find 
all his favorite passages in it " right away'^' as 
he could not in another copy ; and he does care 
for what the boys say, and will not be consoled. 

Now talk to him about the " knights of old, 
sans peur, sans reproche'' who fought for the 
right — ask him if he does not want to be a 
knight, and ride to battle ; and see how soon 
the tear will be dried, and the eye flash, as he 



l66 MUSINGS OF A 

mounts his hobby. He has forgotten all his 
troubles, as he dreams of victory and renown ; 
what matters an erased picture, a torn book, to 
him now? As for the boys — why! he is a 
Christian knight! he must be magnanimous. 
They shall all ride in his train to victory, and 
partake of his fame! Has it done him no 
good, to take him away from his grievances, 
and help him to forgive injuries ? 

Yes, I like hobby-horses — like to see children 
riding off their troubles, and the naughtiness, 
beneath the shelter of their homes, with loved 
faces around them ; and I like to see older 
people do the same. 

Professor Vitch says, " that every good man 
has a hobby, the bad supplying its place with 
a vice." So let us have the hobby, if we must 
have one or the other. To be sure, it is very 
inconvenient sometimes to have your corns 
rocked on by some of these hobbies ; your 
carpets \yorn out, and your nerves put on the 
rack by others. It is very inconvenient and 
unpleasant, but not disastrous — not fatal, by 
any means. 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 167 

Then, if it keeps people good ; keeps them 
from vice, why we, ourselves, are the gainers in 
the long run. 

That man who litters up his wife's house and 
carpets in pursuit of his mania for old books, 
or coins, or collections of fossils, is certainly a 
trial to an orderly woman — is much in her 
way sometimes. Yet there are women whose 
husbands are never in their way who are more 
tried ; and who, when they sit alone waiting for 
the step so long in coming, so far away, so 
far out of the way of virtue and truth, — envy 
the woman whose husband ruins nothing but 
her carpets. 

It must, too, be very trying to a man accus- 
tomed to sedentary and intellectual pursuits 
(who" prefers dust and litter to having his 
papers disturbed), to possess a wife whose hobby 
is cleaning. A wife who, belonging to the 
"Veneering Family," likes everything new, 
and has no reverence for old papers, old books, 
and old furniture. Who even invades her hus- 
band's sanctum, and lays violent hands on his 



l68 MUSINGS OF A 

old treasures. That old chair, in which he has 
done his thinking and writing for years, and 
which just fits his head and back, she sends to 
auction, and replaces it by a handsomer, softer, 
better one altogether — intending it as an agree- 
able surprise. But he has lost an old friend, 
does not care for the new one, and does not 
appreciate the surprise. 

She dusts and cleans, and some little slip of 
paper, with a date or memoranda on it, is gone. 
It seems of no value to her, but the husband 
(poor man) must search through many volumes 
to replace it. Yet he bears it all with patience, 
for his wife is good and loving ; his hearth and 
home are always bright and clean ; and his 
meals punctual and well-ordered. Why should 
he not be patient with her hobby? She has no 
vice. 

Our friend has a religious hobby, or a medi- 
cal or political one, and we get afraid to ask 
him to our tea-drinkings, lest he should rock 
on somebody's toes, and disturb the harmony 
of our pleasant gatherings. Or he has started 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 169 

a society for ameliorating the condition of some 
class or another, or invented a patent tooth- 
pick, or gotten a mania for autographs; and we 
are afraid (in the first instance) to introduce 
him to our rich acquaintances, fearing he may- 
ask for a subscription or patronage ; and to our 
famous ones (in the second) lest he solicit their 
autographs. 

And all this sort of thing does annoy and 
worry us very much. It is so unpleasant to 
have one's taste offended, one's pride wounded, 
one's nerves upset; still, ''there is nobody hurt'* 
very much. 

Yet, as we are only human, after all (be we 
ever so good), I am afraid we are often apt to 
prefer the man of tact and address, even if he 
have a vice. 

I do not assert that all men of tact have vices, 
only that most all vicious nieit have tact. Like 
velocipedes, they run smoothly, and we are apt 
to see nothing out of the way — nothing dis- 
agreeable in them, till they run us, or them- 
selves, off the track, 
IS 



I/O MUSINGS OF A 

But these people with hobbies we always 
know where to find ; they always know where 
to find themselves, and know what they want, 
even if they never get it. They ai7n high, at 
any rate. 

Did not Columbus know what he wanted? 
and Galileo, and Sir Isaac Newton, and Ben- 
jamin Franklin, and Mrs. Fry? Do not people 
accuse Miss Dix and John B. Gough of riding 
their hobbies to death? Yet do we not honor 
them ? Are we not, as Americans, proud of 
them; and as Christians, thankful for them? 

I once heard a great and good man define 
genius as " a natural bent for some pursuit, with 
the will and capability to pursue it persevering- 
ly." This was many years ago, and since then 
the time and opportunity have been given me 
for making many observations, the result of 
which prompts me to make the following query. 
Is not a man who has a hobby, and is said to 
ride it to death, a genius ? 

But all of us have not the will or energy to 
ride our hobbies to the death ; we give in at 



MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. I7I 

the first heat. We have not genius ; we do not 
win the race ! 

Others have hobbies at the start, but they 
become old-fashioned and unpopular; and (hav- 
ing neither the good taste nor moral courage 
to ride them any more) they hide them away 
in the garret, and take to velocipedes, which 
carry them ''somewhere,'' — I do not like to say 
where, for fear of rocking on somebody's toes, 
or lest my own skirts get soiled by touching 
the ground where they ride. 

I mount my hobby and ride to a land where 
the me7t are all Christian knights, fighting for 
the right, storming the strong fortress of Satan 
in this world, and demolishing daily the stronger 
citadel of sin in their own hearts. 

Where the women are all Christian gentle- 
women, worthy of such knights ; women glory- 
ing in their womanhood; women in whom the 
touch of angel nature has so grown we almost 
see their wings, and forget that they are the 
daughters of that Eve who fell, because she 
tried to be other than she was made ; because 
she would know more than was revealed ! 



1/2 MUSINGS. 

And in this land there are no velocipedes; — 
the children all have rocking-horses ; and they 
ride and sing. All the grown people have 
hobbies ; what care they for getting middle- 
aged? They are only farther on in the race. 
What care they for the golden hair turned gray? 
They are only ripening. 

Reader, I have ridden off my restlessness, 
and I don't care if somebody has rubbed out 
my picture. I can and will draw another. 
What matters it if my book be torn — my play- 
thing broken ? I cannot stop to mourn. I 'm 
a Christian soldier fighting for the right. 

And I '11 forgive the boys (and girls, too,) for 
the many times they have made life a burden 
to me. I do not mean the little people, who 
are so many flowers in my pathway, but those 
larger folk, who ignore ^ e's nerves, laugh at 
one's tastes, and forget that one has a heart to 
break and a soul to be fed. 

Yes, friends, I forgive you — every one ! 
Wilt mount? Wilt ride in my train to battle? 

to VICTORY? 

THE END. 



